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THE  OEORdB  B.  LASK  COLLECTION 


THE  WOOING  OF  A 
VIOLIN 


A  Drama  in  Four  Acts 


BY 


ALBERT  S.  HUMPHREY 


COPYRIGHT  1904 

BY 
ALBERT  S.  HUMPHREY 

GALESBURG,  ILL. 


This  plag  is  AeAimizd.  in  those 
find  in  the  drama  the  meeting-Blare  nf 
all  the  arts;  ruhere  gather  in  an  equal 
nimpang  Ittnsir,  fainting,  Jtrtinn,  anil 
the  srral-franght  ^pnken  TOnrd. 
more  espettallr,  it  is  ileiiirateii  tn 
mhnse  inmost  heart  vibrates  in  a  newer 
ending  rgthm  nf  mnsir,  poetizing  riruii- 
gerg  intn  csalms,  anil  harmmtizing  the 
things  tuhirh  tang  nf  earth  nxith  thnse 
feel  nf  heaxren. 


20139(^9 


it  might  JIB  0f  interest : 


A  musical  friend  of  mine  once  lamented  that  there 
were  so  few  stories  and  the  like  written  upon  musical 
themes.  For  some  reason,  the  thought  persisted  in 
remaining  with  me ;  and,  as  I  conned  it  over,  there  be- 
gan to  form  around  and  through  it  a  little  plot  in 
which  one  with  a  genius  for  music  told  of  his  ex- 
periences when  under  the  spell  of  composition.  I 
wrote  it  off;  and  as  I  wrote,  the  sketch  grew  until  it 
became  the  play  as  you  see  it  here.  For  the  charming 
little  melody,  which  Paolo  is  supposed  to  have  com- 
posed, I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  William  F.  Bentley,  Di- 
rector of  Knox  Conservatory  of  Music.  Without  this 
kind  assistance  my  efforts  had  been  incomplete. 

As  you  read,  and,  of  necessity,  criticize  the  many 
literary  imperfections,  I  beg  that  you  withhold  too 
great  displeasure.  For  its  excellences,  if  there  be  any, 
I  have  taken  this  means  of  having  you  share  them,  be- 
lieving that  you  will  get  some  moiety  of  joy  from 
what  was  so  considerable  a  joy  to  me. 

A  song  is  a  dream-land  mist  congealed  into  crystal 
drops  to  slake  the  thirst  of  souls.  Touch  this  Ariel's 
cup  to  your  lips,  consecrating  it  with  your  breath,  and 
let  us  drink  to  the  art  of  Music. 

I  hope  that  you  will  like  the  dramatic  form ;  thus, 


we  may  get  the  essence,  with  no  padding  of  words, 
and  leave  large  opportunity  to  pleasure  your  own  con- 
structive fancy.  A  drama  is  actual  life  transposed  into 
fiction,  draped  about  with  all  the  arts  of  expression, 
and  set  within  the  studio  of  character. 

Will  you  step  within  my  poor  study  chamber  and 
let  us  read  together  THE  WOOING  OF  A  VIOLIN. 

ALBERT  S.  HUMPHREY. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


Paolo  Adremollo     .  a  street  musician. 

Mr.  Glendon      .     .  a  wealthy  manufacturer. 

Mr.  Hyde      ...  a  promoter. 

Mr.  Chase     ...  a  friend  of  Mr.  Glendon's. 

Marioni    ....  an  Italian  padrone. 

Clem a  negro  servant  of  Mr.  Glendon's. 

Pierre an  abducted  boy  under  the  padrone. 

Mike  Delaney    .     .  a  labor  leader. 

Myriam  Glendon    .  daughter  of  Mr.  Glendon. 

Nizetta     ....  daughter  of  padrone. 

?•     .     .     .         friends  of  the  Glendon's. 

Mrs.  Marioni     .     .  wife  of  padrone. 
Mrs.  Lane     ...  a  matron  in  Mr.  Glendon's  home. 
A  thug,  workmen  and  others. 


OF   A   VIOLIN 


PLACE:  New  York  City.     TIME:  present. 
ACT  I 

SCENE — (A  basement  in  a  squalid  quarter  of  the  BAST 
SIDE  ITALIAN  DISTRICT.  Doors  Right  and  Left;  one 
leading  to  the  street,  the  other  to  an  inner  sleeping  room.  An 
old  cook  stove  stands  back,  over  which  the  padrone's  wife  is 
at  work  with  utensils  getting  the  mid-day  meal.  An  old  kitch- 
en table  and  two  chairs  stand  Center.  Disguises  for  beggars, 
crutches,  and  things  of  like  nature,  lie  about  the  Hoar  and 
hang  upon  the  walls.  MARIONI  is  at  work,  seated  on  the 
floor,  Left;  he  is  stuffing  a  coat  so  as  to  give  the  wearer  the 
appearance  of  a  hunch-back.  PIERRE  is  lying,  Right.  A 
rawhide  whip  hangs  upon  the  wall,  Left.  An  old  cupboard 
with  dishes  is  Left  of  the  stove  in  a  corner.) 

MARIONI.  Come  here,  Felice.  Felice !  You  don'ta  forgetta 
your  name  so  quicka,  do  you? 

PIERRE.     Felice  is  not  my  name — I  hate  Felice. 

MAR.  I  calla  you  whata  I  please,  and  when  I  calla  you, 
come  quicka,  or  I  show  you.  [He  reaches  for  the  whip.] 

PIERRE.     I  will — no,  no — I  will! 
MAR.     Puta  on  this. 

PIERRE.  Oh,  please  don't  make  me  play  that  hateful 
thing.  I  can't  bear  it. 

MAR.  Can'ta  bear!  You  cana  bear  to  go  without  your 
dinner,  I  guess  ?  You  cana  bear  the  nice  softa  whip  on 
your  back  ?  I  guess  you  cana  bear  this  nicea  coata,  too. 

7 


THE   WOOING 

PIERRE.  Oh,  when  may  I  go  home — you  promised  me 
last  week.  [As  he  puts  on  the  coat.] 

MAR.  Never!  I  wasa  fooling.  You  cana  live  here  and 
have  Nizetta  for  a  sister;  you  laka  that?  Hump? 

(PIERRE'S  face  shows  an  agony  too  great  for  tears.) 

MAR.  Oh,  now  you  looka  fine!  Gooda  Felice!  That's 
how  I  have  maka  you  try  long  time.  Looka  like  thata 
and  you  bringa  in  much  moneys — much  moneys ;  and 
I  taka  offa  da  hump;  and  we  have  fine  time,  and 
mucha  to  eata — eh.  old  woman — mucha  to  eata,  ha, 
ha! 

WIFE.     Mucha  to  eata!   Why,  you  scara  da  boy  so? 
MAR.     Oh,  shutta  da  moutha! 

WIFE.  If  you  putta  so  much  time  in  your  business  as  in 
abuse  of  these  children,  we  would  have  plenta  to  eata 
and  be  American. 

MAR.  You  talka  da  fool.  This  is  my  business.  You  tenda 
da  pot;  I  tenda  da  business. 

(A  knock  at  the  door  is  heard;  MARIONI  starts  appre- 
hensively.) 

PIERRE.     Somebody  knocked. 
MAR.     You  heara  it?     [To  the  wife.] 
WIFE.     Three  times  already;  its  Nizetta. 
MAR.     Open  door! 

(PIERRE  unbolts  the  door  and  NIZETTA  enters  with  a 
tambourine  in  hand,  and  a  red  handkerchief  of  small  coins. 
She  is  fantastically  dressed.  PAOLO  follows  her  in,  his 
violin  under  his  arm.  He  goes  back  to  the  table,  and  sits 
quietly — he  seems  to  be  in  deep  thought.) 

8 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

NIZETTA.  You  were  a  long  time  letting  us  in.  Did  you 
think  we  were  some  more  of  those  coppers?  Ha,  ha. 
How  the  coppers  did  scare  us  though ! 

(Her  manner  is  "vivacious  and  full  of  good   humor.) 
PIERRE.     Bring  any  money? 
Niz.     Lots,  little  brother. 
MAR.     "Coppers,"  bah ! 
WIFE.     Don'ta  make  sucha  clatter. 

Niz.  "Coppers,  bah!"  You  were  scared  out  of  your  wits, 
and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Paolo  over  there,  you 
would  have  been  sent  up  for  ten  years,  old  sour 
tomalley. 

MAR.     You  talka  too  mucha.    [He  strikes   Nizetta.] 

Niz.  Don't  you  do  that  again !  I  got  bruises  enough 
now,  besides,  Paolo  and  me  brought  you,  and  mom- 
mer,  and  Pierre — come  here,  Pierre — a  different 
kind  of  coppers.  See!  [She  pours  the  money  on  the 
floor.]  Some  brown  ones,  some  white  ones;  no 
yellow  ones,  though — don't  you  wish  I  had  brought 
some  big  yellow  ones?  Ten  dollars  in  one  piece — 
you  going  to  do  that  sometime,  Pierre. 

MAR.  You  maka  her  calla  da  boy  Felice  [Aside,  and  to 
wife.] 

(PIERRE  shakes  his  head  in   reply   to   NIZETTA.) 

MAR.  Whata  you  say?  I  learna  you  some  more  I  guess, 
eh? 

Niz.  I  thought  we'd  get  a  yellow  one  from  the  lady  who 
came  by  in  the  fine  carriage,  didn't  you,  Paolo? 


THE   WOOING 

MAR.  Gooda  work!  Vera  gooda  work — you  improof — 
we  be  rich  and  leef  in  beeg  houses  sometimes. 

WIFE.  You  love  mona  too  mucha  to  ever  geta  outa  this 
hole. 

Niz.     I  think  he  does;  he — 

MAR.  Right!  You  are  vera  right!  Mona  is  better  than 
houses  an'  I  taka  da  mon.  [He  starts  to  seize  the 
coin.] 

Niz.  No  you  don't,  it's  mine!  [She  playfully  covers  the 
money  with  her  hands.] 

MAR.     Diavolo!  Na,  na!    Get  away! 
Niz.     It's  Paolo's. 

(MARIONI  steps  on  NIZETTA'S  hand  as  he  seizes  her 
shoulder  and  rudely  throws  her  over;  NIZETTA  screams; 
PAOLO  half  rises  as  if  to  interfere;  NIZETTA  wrenches 
her  hand  from  under  MARIONI'S  foot,  and,  going  back,  sits 
on  the  Hoor  beside  PAOLO,  who  has  again  taken  his  seat.) 

MAR.     Pretty  gooda  pull  for  one  time,  eh,  old  woman? 

WIFE.     Plenta  for  one  time — letta  go  resta  now. 

MAR.     Resta?     Whata,  sleep?     No  maka  da  mon  asleep. 

(He  takes  a  belt  from  under  his  shirt  and  fills  it  with  the 
money.) 

WIFE.  Umph!  [She  goes  to  the  table.]  Well,  cana  they 
have  a  little  bita  bone  to  eata,  and  one  piece  macka- 
ron?  Come,  seeta  here. 

(They  all  sit  at  the  table  and  begin  their  dinner.) 

MAR.     Whata  you  say  abouta  piece  of  gold? 

Niz.  No.  It  was  a  lady  who  stopped  to  hear  Paolo  play. 
She  must  be  awful  rich — had  a  fine  carriage.  I 

10 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

smiled  my  best  but  she  dropped  only  two  dimes  in 
my  tambourine.  Oh,  she  was  beautiful — wasn't  she 
beautiful,  Paolo? 

PAOLO.     She  was  very  beautiful. 
PIERRE.     What  did  she  look  like? 

Niz.  Like  me,  a  princess!  And  when  Paolo  saw  her 
looking  at  him  like  this  [  She  gives  an  humorous  love 
lorne  expression,]  he  clear  forgot  to  play,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
ha;  and  then,  in  a  minute,  she  drove  away. 

MAR.     Why  you  stoppa  da  play? 

PAOLO.     I  don't  know  why — I  didn't  know  that  I  did. 

Niz.  Oh,  ha,  ha,  ha,  didn't  know  you  did!  [A  pause.] 
What  you  thinking  of,  Paolo? 

PAOLO.  Why,  you  were  speaking  about  the  lady  who 
stopped  to  listen  to  my  violin. 

Niz.  And  you  have  been  an  old  oyster  ever  since.  Are 
you  in  love  with  her  so  quick? 

(He  smiles  and  lays  a  hand  on  hers,  which  is  resting  on 
the  table's  edge.) 

PAOLO.     Oh,  no,  no! 

Niz.  You  lie — you  lie  to  me!  Your  lips  lie,  but  your 
eyes  tell  true! 

MAR.     Crazy  cat! 

WIFE.  Be  quiet!  [Pierre  runs  away  to  a  far  corner  of 
the  room.] 

Niz.  I  hate  you !  I  hate  you !  I  could  scratch  your  eyes 
out! 

11 


THE   WOOING 

(She  springs  at  PAOLO,  who  seises  her  by  the  wrists; 
they  rise,  and,  doing  so,  upset  the  table — the  dishes  crashing 
to  the  Hoor.) 

MAR.     She  devils!     [Striking  her  viciously.] 

PAOLO.     Never  do  that  again! 

MAR.     Whata  you  say?     You  needa  little,  too? 

PAOLO.     Yes,  I  wish  you'd  try.     You  have  struck  her  for 
the  last  time  in  your  life. 

MAR.     You  getta  too  beeg;  I  have  to  cutta    you    down. 
[He  draws  a  knife.] 

Niz.     No!   [She  springs  between  Marioni  and  Paolo.] 
WIFE.     You  be  a  beeg  fool;  putta  up  da  knife. 

(She  seizes  MARIONI  by  the  arm,  and,  leading  him  away, 
gives  him  a  bowl,  and  they  cross,  Left,  where  they  sit  on  the 
•floor  and  continue  their  meal,  MARIONI  venting  his  anger 
the  while  in  surly  guttural.) 

Niz.     I  stole  that  twenty  cents.     We'll  go  out  and  get  a 
better  dinner. 

PAOLO.     No,  not  now,  this  is  enough  for  now.     Save  it. 

(Each  picks  up  a  dish,  and  they  sit,  Right.  PIERRE  goes 
to  them.) 

Niz.     I  am  very  sorry  I  hurt  you. 
PAOLO.     I  scarcely  feel  it,  little  one. 

Niz.     But  you  must  not  love  anyone  but  me — I  think  I'd 
kill  you  if  you  did. 

PAOLO.     Why,  you  are  a  little  savage,  Nizetta. 

Niz.     No,  but  I've  heard  the  stories  of  my  people ;  and  I  am 
like  them — like  them  for  all  of  your  trying  to  show 

12 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

me  better.     I  would  think  there  was  no  way  to  be 
better,  only  that  you  want  me  so. 

PAOLO.     You  say  you  would  kill  me  if  I  loved  another? 
Niz.     I'm  sure  of  it. 

PAOLO.  Then  why  did  you,  just  now,  save  me  from  your 
father's  stilletto? 

Niz.  Oh,  he  wanted  to  stab  because  of  hate.  To  kill 
because  one  loves  is  different  from  killing  because 
of  hate.  I  could  die  by  your  hand  almost  gladly. 

PAOLO.  Do  not  say  it;  it  cuts  me  through  and  through. 
When  shall  I  ever  understand  you,  you  strange, 
strange  girl? 

Niz.  Never.  Sometimes  I'm  like  a  tiger,  in  a  cage  of 
iron,  barred  from  liberty.  Sometimes  I'm  like  a 
little  kitten.  I'm  the  kitten  now — and  I  guess  that's 
mostly  me.  You  do  love  me — don't  you — a  little? 

PAOLO.  I  love  you  a  great  deal.  If  I  didn't,  I  would  not 
stay  here  in  this  wretched  den  a  day  longer. 

Niz.     But  if  you  left  here,  where  would  you  go? 
PAOLO.     I  don't  know ;  anywhere,  rather  than  here. 
Niz.     But  my  father  would  follow  you  and  kill  you. 
PAOLO.     It  wouldn't  matter. 

Niz.  Oh,  yes,  it  would,  an  awful  lot!  [At  this  point  a 
little  earth  falls  from  a  crack  in  the  ceiling.]  That 
old  roof  is  going  to  cave  in  some  time — see  the  dirt 
fall  again? 

PAOLO.  Yes,  it  is  dangerous,  and  let  us  find  out  safer 
quarters.  Little  sister,  once  more  let  me  beg  you  to 

13 


THE   WOOING 

go  to  the  abbess  Millicent.  She  wants  you;  I  have 
told  her  of  you  so  often.  You  will  be  safe  from 
harm,  and  in  a  pleasant  home  where  you  may  have 
all  that's  beautiful  in  the  world;  and  be  among  peo- 
ple who  would  help  you  to  grow  into  a  lovely — lovely 
woman. 

Niz.  I'm  lovely  now — [coyly]  ain't  I?  [pause.]  Ain't  I? 
[With  emphasis]  Ain't  I?  [Shriek.] 

PAOLO.     [Quickly]   Yes,  yes —  sometimes. 

MAR.  Shutta  da  moutha!  [He  shakes  his  wife,  who  has 
fallen  asleep.]  Gar-r-r-r-r — sleep,  sleep,  nighta  and 
day — I  guess  not!  [Nizetta  feigns  sleep  with  her 
head  on  Paolo's  knee.  Pierre  is  nearby.]  Here,  you 
outa  this !  [To  Nizetta]  Taka  Felice  down  on  a 
gooda  place,  and  stay  by  close;  if  he  don'ta  getta  da 
mon,  you  know!  [Nizetta  lingers,  talking  to  Paolo 
playfully.] 

MAR.     Gar-r-r-r-h ! 

Niz.  Gar-r-r-r-h  yourself!  Good-bye,  Paolo, — good- 
bye. 

(Her  eyes  linger  upon  PAOLO  as  she  pushes  PIERRE 
through  the   door-way,  and  BOTH  EXIT.) 

MAR.     You  learna  her  name? 

PAOLO.     Whose  name? 

MAR.     Woman's  who  stopa  to  heara  you  make  music. 

PAOLO.     I  heard  one  in  the  crowd  speak  her  name. 

MAR.     Well? 

(EXIT  WIFE,  with  dishes,  Left.) 
PAOLO.     It  was  Glendon,  I  think;  yes,  Glendon. 

14 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

MAR.     You  follow  eet  up? 

PAOLO.     No,  I  shall  let  it  pass  to  be  forgotten. 

MAR.     Stupido !     You  gotta  no  sense ! 

PAOLO.  [Aside]  Forgotten;  that  is  but  the  refinement  of 
selfishness  to  blot  from  memory  what  could  bring 
nothing  but  sorrow  if  pursued.  [He  drops  his  head 
upon  the  table.] 

MAR.  You  finda  her;  it  will  pay,  mebbie.  Eh?  [pause.] 
Asleep!  Bah! 

(MARIONI  goes  to  the  old  cupboard  in  the  corner,  gets  a 
chisel  from  a  shelf,  and  returns  to  the  center  of  the  room. 
He  removes  a  stone  from  the  floor  and  puts  into  an  iron 
kettle,  which  was  hidden  there,  the  money  from  his  belt.  He 
then  replaces  the  stone  ) 

Wake  up!  Wake  up!  [Paolo  raises  his  head.]    Maka 
some  new  pieces  to  play  da  lady,  mebbie ! 

PAOLO.  [Aside]  Yes,  that  is  it.  He  has  spoken  my  un- 
formed wish.  [To  Marioni]  You  do  have  a  happy 
thought  in  that  cramped  skull  of  yours,  at  times,  and 
this  is  such  a  time. 

MAR.     Hump  ? 

PAOLO.  [Aside]  But  it  is  valuable  only  to  him  whose  in- 
terpretation finds  value  in  it.  This  pitiable  carica- 
ture of  a  man,  whose  talents  are  all  spent  in  evil 
ways,  unwittingly  says  the  thing  which  breeds  a  joy. 
[He  takes  up  his  violin.]  Come,  old  fellow,  respon- 
sive ever  to  me  as  you  are,  if  you  have  a  soul  within 
the  vibrant  stuff  of  which  your  form  is  made,  let's 
talk  together.  We'll  speak  of  her  whose  sudden 
presence  swept  through  me  like  some  cathedral  or- 
gan's vast  crescendo  taking  captive  forever  the  pur- 

15 


THE   WOOING 

poses  of  my  brain.  [He  plays  ad.  lib.  throughout 
this  speech.]  Purposes  of  my  brain?  What  are 
they  ?  None  knows ;  not  I,  nor  does  she — yet,  within, 
I  feel  a  mystic  force  that  must  have  scope  or  'twill 
rend  my  very  flesh  asunder  and  let  fly  too  soon  its 
immortal  tenant. 

I  am  a  street  fiddler,  and,  but  for  her,  might  so 
remain.  But  now  I  feel  it  given  me  to  become — 
what?  I  cannot  know — yet,  oh,  it  seems  my  eyes 
could  pierce  the  future  by  the  very  ecstacy  of  my 
hope  and  read  the  promise  written  there.  Men  have 
the  gift  of  prophecy  which  is  the  bent  and  leaning 
of  their  souls — and  mine — I  may  lack  the  sense  to 
utter  it,  but  it  shall  be  worthy  her. 


[CURTAIN] 


16 


OF   A   VIOLIN 


ACT  II. 


SCENE. — (Apartments  of  MR.  GLENDON,  richly  fur- 
nished; a  harp  stands  back,  Right  Center.  MR.  GLENDON 
is  discovered  reading  and  smoking,  Left  Center.  MYRIAM 
appears  a  moment  after  the  curtain  goes  up,  in  the  great 
archzvay  which  connects  with  the  hall  which  runs  full  across 
at  back.  She  comes  down  softly,  and  embraces  her  father 
from  behind  his  chair.) 

MYRIAM.  Which  would  you  rather  have,  your  old  paper 
or  me? 

GLENDON.     My  old  paper  isn't  an  outrageous  tease. 

MYR.  And  shall  I  infer  by  that  that  I  am?  Well,  I  con- 
fess it.  But,  father,  it  keeps  you  from  becoming  a 
grumpy,  crusty,  old  business  grind,  and  so  has  its 
virtues,  I  think,  don't  you? 

GLEN.  [Dropping  his  paper  and  embracing  Myriam  ] 
True,  true  enough ;  what  should  I  do  without  you, 
goodness  knows ;  mine  would  be  a  lonely  life  indeed. 

MYR.     What  are  you  going  to  do  to-night,  papa? 
GLEN.     This  evening? 
MYR.     Umhum. 

GLEN.  Why,  I  have  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Wetherell 
at  the  club. 

MYR.  Would  you  have  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Weth- 
erell at  the  club  if  I  had  an  appointment  with  you  at 
the  same  hour  here?  *:•» 

17 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.     I'm   afraid   I   would,  sweetheart.     But  it  chances 

that  I  am  not  in  that  unfortunate  predicament. 
MYR.     Oh,  yes,  but  you  are! 

GLEN.  I  have  made  no  promise  to  you  for  this  evening, 
Myriam. 

MYR.     No,  but  you  are  going  to. 
GLEN.     Ah,  no,  that  were  impossible. 

MYR.  It  is  not  impossible,  for  you  are  going  to  promise 
me — because — because — 

GLEN.     Well? 

MYR.     Just  because.     [Both  laugh.] 

GLEN.  Just  because !  What  subtle  metaphysics  a  woman 
can  embody  in  that  comprehensive  dissyllable. 

MYR.  Yes,  for,  while  you  clumsy-minded  men  are  labor- 
ing with  wheel  and  chain  to  draw  two  ideas  together, 
a  woman,  in  a  flash  of  revelation,  has  the  whole  mat- 
ter in  her  grasp,  and  a  conclusion  reached,  while  the 
heart  beats  once. 

GLEN.     And    the    conclusion — the     reason — is    "Just    be- 
cause." 
MYR.     Umhum, —  and  it's  right,  too;  always  right. 

GLEN.  Let  us  see,  now.  We'll  take  your  figure  of  the 
wheel  and  chain — or,  better  still,  suppose  we  make 
it  a  pair  of  balances :  here  is  my  engagement  with 
Wetherell :  an  important  matter  of  business  to  be 
discussed.  [He  raises  the  hand  with  the  cigar  in  it 
for  one  side  of  the  balances.]  Here  is  your  psychic 
marvel  "because."  [He  raises  the  other  hand  to  repre- 
sent the  other  side.] 

18 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

MYR.  And  your  old  engagement  is  going  up  in  smoke, 
[indicating  the  burning  cigar]  and  this  is  the  weight 
of  a  "because."  [She  lays  her  head  in  his  free 
hand.] 

GLEN.  [Taking  Myriam  in  his  arms]  You  are  my  little 
philosopher.  You  have  fathomed  the  depths  of  a 
woman's  reason;  and  it's  right,  and  sweet,  and  just. 
But  the  harder  logic  of  figures — which  stand  for  dol- 
lars— which  stand  for  hats,  and  gowns,  and  travel, 
and  art — which  stand  for  about  all  you  care  for — 
which  stands  for  about  all  I  care  for — 

MYR.     Excepting  just  us  two;  each  for  the  other. 

GLEN.  Yes,  yes,  you  have  named  the  goodly  part  of  all 
there  is  in  life  for  you  and  me — as  yet — [Myriam 
looks  at  Glendon  questioningly]  this  harder  logic  of 
figures  must  be  yielded  to  for  to-night,  dear. 

MYR.     Why  did  you  throw  in  that,  "as  yet?" 

GLEN.  Just  to  provide  a  way  of  escape;  for  I  expected 
you  to  corner  my  argument  with  a  "because."  [Both 
laugh.] 

MYR.  Well,  of  course  you  know  best,  but — but  I  did 
want  you  to  be  at  home  to-night,  father.  Can't  you 
telephone  Mr.  Wetherell  that  you  will  see  him  in  the 
morning?  And  let  your  old  figures  which  stand  for 
dollars — which  stand  for — oh, — for  me!  Why,  you 
awful  popper,  give  me  your  balances  and  I'll  weigh 
your  reasons  before  your  very  eyes.  [She  takes  the 
cigar  and  imitates  the  action  of  a  pair  of  balances.] 
Dollars — Myriam — dollars — Myriam — see,  your  dol- 
lars are  turning  to  ashes.  [Laughingly.] 

19 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.  [With  emotion]  May  that  have  no  significance  ex- 
cept in  terms  of  a  jest. 

MYR.  But  all  fooling  aside — now  don't  think  me  a  little 
goose,  papa,  for  it  is  awfully  hard — Mr.  Hyde  is  to 
call  to-night,  and  he's — so — so — silly. 

GLEN.  My  dear,  you  will  have  to  learn  to  get  along  with 
such  ;  the  world — 

MYR.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say ;  but  I  had  rather 
never  learn.  I  have  been  trying  to  be  nice  to  him, 
and  all  that,  and  he  has  taken  it  as  encouragement. 

GLEN.  P.»haw,  pshaw,  treat  him  cooler  for  a  little  while. 

MYR.  I  have,  lately,  but  it  doesn't  do  any  good.  It  is 
embarrassing,  father.  I  just  can't  entertain  him ;  his 
talk  is  of  sports,  his  music  is  ragtime,  his  appetite — 
we  don't  keep  that  which  satisfies  it  in  the  house — 
and  his — 

GLEN.  He  doesn't  drink,  Myriam!  [Myriam  nods,  insist- 
ing that  he  does.]  Nonsense,  girl!  Why,  he  has  one 
of  the  longest  heads  in  business  of  any  man  on  the 
board  in  the  city. 

MYR.  But  he  is  not  a  gentleman — not  a  gentleman  at 
heart,  I  mean. 

GLEN.  Don't  do  him  an  injustice,  Myriam.  Dislike  is  no 
excuse  for  abuse  of  a  man.  Besides,  we  receive  him 
here  in  our  home. 

MYR.  All  of  which  is  very  true.  But  I  have  a  feeling  we 
won't  receive  him  here  for  long.  [She  rises,  and 
crosses  to  the  Right.] 

GLEN.  Don't  let  your  young  judgment  betray  you  into 
false  estimates. 

20 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

(ENTER  CLEM,  with  card,  which  he  gives  to  MYRI- 
AM.) 

MYR.     Show  him  in,  Clem. 
(EXIT  CLEM.) 

Mr.  Hyde  is  come.  You  will  receive  him;  and  re- 
main until  I  make  myself  presentable?  Father,  don't 
let  this  night  be  a  bitter  one  for  me. 

(EXIT,  Right.) 

GLEN.  What  a  mixture  of  child  and  woman  she  is,  bless 
her!  And  may  the  course  of  her  life  never  alter  that 
charm. 

(ENTER  CLEM  and  MR.  HYDE.) 

Ah,  hello,  Hyde;  my  daughter  was  just  telling  me 
you  were  expected. 

(EXIT,  CLEM.) 

HYDE.  Even  so  poor  a  man  as  I,  the  subject  of  your 
thought;  that's  encouraging. 

GLEN.     Ha,  ha,  very! 

HYDE.  Didn't  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  finding  you  in, 
this  evening,  Glendon.  Met  Wetherell  at  the  club, 
just  now ;  he  spoke  of  a  date  with  you,  I  believe. 

GLEN.     Yes,  I  am  going  over  presently. 
(ENTER  MYRIAM,  Right.) 

MYR.  But  I  shall  not  allow  it;  father  was  taken  quite  ill, 
and  must  disappoint  Mr.  Wetherell,  this  evening. 

GLEN.     Girlie ! 

MYR.  You  are  a  little  more  than  punctual,  Mr.  Hyde. 
[And  advancing  cordially,  she  shakes  hands  with 
him.] 

21 


THE   WOOING 

HYDE.  Am  a  bit  early.  Even  as  it  is,  I  walked  around  the 
block  to  kill  a  little  time  for  your  sake. 

MYR.     So  considerate  of  you.     [Laughs.] 

HYDE.  I  find  it  easy  to  walk  in  this  direction  for  some 
reason  or  other. 

GLEN.  My  daughter  has  just  accused  me  of  an  opposite 
inclination;  and  now  that  you  are  happily  fixed  for 
the  evening,  I  shall  indulge  it,  I  think.  I  bid  you 
good  night — I  am  glad  you  dropped  in,  Mr.  Hyde. 

HYDE.  You  are  keeping  your  engagement,  then?  You 
are  not  ill? 

GLEN.  That  was  a  bit  of  diplomacy  that  failed.  [Laugh- 
ing-] 

MYR.  [In  the  archway]  Father,  I  hope  I  was  just  a  fool- 
ish little  girl,  and  that  nothing  will  go  up  in  smoke 
but  your  anxiety. 

GLEN.  You  are  my  very  sensible  little  woman.  [Kisses 
her.] 

(Laughter  is  heard  off.) 
MYR.     Oh,  that  must  be  Grace,  and  Bess,,  and  Mr.  Chase. 

(MYRIAM  stands  expectantly  as  GLENDON  EXITS.) 
(The  following  few  speeches  are  given  in  vestibule,  off.) 

GRACE.     Good  evening,  Mr.  Glendon. 

BESS.     How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Glendon. 

GLEN.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  had  I  known  you  were  com- 
ing— 

GRACE.  Oh,  you  can  never  tell  a  minute  before  what  we 
may  do  the  next. 

CHASE.  Very  pertinent ;  they  bagged  me  on  the  street,  just 
now  and — 

22 


OF   A    VIOLIN 

BESS.  That's  the  jolly  privilege  of  a  woman,  you  know; 
it's  about  time  some  one  was  bagging  him,  I'm  think- 
ing. [This  is  greeted  with  laughter.] 

GLEN.  Ha,  ha,  glad  of  it,  Chase,  glad  you  were  captured. 
You'll  find  Myriam  and  Mr.  Hyde  waiting  to  receive 
you.  Good  night.  By  the  way,  Chase — just  a  mo- 
ment— 

HYDE.  [At  Right  Center]  Can't  we  have  this  evening  to 
ourselves  ? 

MYR.     I  see  no  possibility. 

HYDE.  I  thought  I  told  you — [A  meaning  look  from  My- 
riam stops  him.] 

CHASE.     That  will  be  all  right.    Good  night,  Mr.  Glendon. 
GRACE.     Good  night. 
BESS.     Au  revoir. 

(ENTER  GRACE,  BESS  and  MR.  CHASE.) 
MYR.     I  am  so  glad  you  are  come. 
CHASE.     We  knew  you  would  be. 

MYR.  Father  was  compelled  to  go  out,  but  now,  your 
coming  will  make  the  evening  complete. 

CHASE.  Hello,  old  man.  [To  Hyde,  as  Chase  goes  down, 
Right  Center.] 

GRACE.  You  see  I  know  where  to  come  when  I'm  bored 
by  my  own  company. 

HYDE.  Exactly;  but  why  not  consider  others?  [Lugu- 
briously ;  at  which  all  laugh.] 

BESS.     Oh,  you  are  horrid! 

23 


THE   WOOING 

M,YR.     [Looking  about  ]     But  we  need  another  man. 
CHASE.     No,  just  a  part  of  one;  we  have  his  hyde  here. 

[And  the  laugh  ensues.] 
BESS.     Isn't  that  perfectly  awful?  [She  sits,  Left.] 

GRACE.  I  would  flay  him  alive  for  that.  [She  is  seated 
with  Bess.] 

HYDE.  Anyone  who  will  joke  of  a  wart  on  another's  nose, 
or  of  another  man's  name,  for  which  the  associates 
of  an  ancient  ancestry  were  responsible,  would  pull 
the  shoes  off  a  dead  carriage-horse  for  good  luck. 

CHASE.     Your  simile  is  more  caustic  than  relevant. 

GRACE.  Had  you  best  get  him  a  cup  of  tea?  It  will  warm 
him  a  little. 

CHASE.  By  no  means;  it  would  only  aggravate  the  symp- 
toms. 

GRACE.  )  TT      .. 
BESS.     [How? 

CHASE.  The  tannin  of  the  tea  puckers  the  cuticle — that  is 
to  say,  the  hyde.  [A  laugh  follows.] 

GRACE.     This  improves. 

BESS.     Isn't  he  the  wittiest  thing? 

MYR.  But,  Mr.  Hyde,  you  said  the  associates  of  an  an- 
cient ancestry  were  responsible  for  your  name. 

HYDE.     Oh,  no,  I  didn't;  I  merely  suggested  the  likelihood. 

BESS.  Oh,  rubbish !  That's  beyond  anyone  but  a  crank  on 
family  trees  and  things. 

CHASE.     Well  said,  you  refer,  of  course,  to  the  home  of  the 

24 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

ancient  ancestry — the  tree,  in  the  forest  primeval, 
where  the  ape  first  thought.  [All  but  Bess  enjoy  the 
jest] 

BESS.     What's  that? 

GRACE.  Better  and  better — why,  Mr.  Chase,  your  very 
breath  is  weighted  with  interest  biological,  psycholog- 
ical, anthropological — oh,  rescue  me,  rescue  me ! 

HYDE.  And  foolillogical.  [All  laugh.]  As  I  was  saying 
before  this  anthropoidal  chatter  interrupted  me — 

GRACE.     Which  ? 

BESS.     Who? 

CHASE.     Um ! 

HYDE.     To  answer  your  question,  Miss  Myriam — 

MYR.  Thank  you.  But  why  are  we  standing?  [They 
take  seats.] 

HYDE.  Going  back  in  our  family  history  to  the  first  event 
of  which  we  have  authentic  evidence,  we  find  a  chron- 
icle of  battle.  [Pause.] 

BESS.     How  thrilling!      [All  laugh.] 

CHASE.  This  is  profane  history  ?  Yes  ?  Thanks ;  it 
makes  a  difference. 

BESS.     How?     [To  Grace.] 

GRACE.     Otherwise,  it  would  have  been  Adam.    [To  Bess.] 

HYDE.  My  remotest  of  great-grandfathers  was  a  mighty 
warrior,  who  rode  a  mighty  steed,  at  the  head  of  a 
mighty  tribe. 

MYR.     How  delightfully  romantic! 

25 


THE   WOOING 
GRACE. 


CE.  ) 

5-        > 


BESS.      rYes- 

HYDE.  But  one  day,  in  battle,  while  leading  a  terrible 
charge,  this  centaur  was  crushing  the  enemy  down, 
the  horse  hurled,  breast  on,  against  a  fallen  foeman's 
spear,  and,  crashing  his  great  bulk  to  the  ground, 
fell  dead. 

THE  LADIES.     Oh  ! 
CHASE.     Hear,  hear! 

HYDE.  Then  with  sentiment,  but  with  more  discretion, 
this  ancestral  warrior  took  the  skin  of  his  great 
mount  — 

CHASE.     Erstwhile  mount  —  go  on. 

HYDE.  And  out  of  the  head  and  neck  of  it,  he  made  a 
head-piece,  and  a  cape  ;  and  out  of  the  remainder,  a 
covering  for  his  body,  rendering  him,  as  it  were,  im- 
pervious to  weapons. 

GRACE.     "Impervious"  is  good. 

HYDE.  And  when  the  enemy  saw  my  remotest  ancestor 
confront  them  thus  accoutered,  they  laughed,  and  in 
derision  cried,  "Horse  Hyle,  Horse  Hyde!"  But  they 
found  him  invulnerable  to  attack.  And  many  there 
were  who  never  told  upon  their  hearthstones  the  story 
of  such  battles. 

CHASE.     Great!  Great! 


IV!YR      ~) 

GRACE   I  Good!  Good!  [Laugh  and  clap  hands.] 

HYDE.     And  with  such  success,  for  many  moons,  this  un- 
equal warfare  was  kept  up,  that,  often  for  lack  of 


26 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

breath,  the  enemy  would  drop  the  first  word  of  their 
jeering  epithet,  and,  crying,  "hyde!  hyde!"  would 
scamper  from  the  field.  And  thenceforth,  bloodless 
victories  have  been  the  order  of  our  people. 

(Laughter  and  applause  greet    the  end  of  his  tale.) 

HYDE.  You  note  the  economy  in  language  of  those  an- 
terior men  who  could  warn,  advise  and  act  upon  the 
one  word,  hide — pardon  my  anticipation  of  your  re- 
turn. [To  Chase,  who  nods  in  mock  dignity.] 

BESS.     But  I  don't  see  the  connection. 

HYDE.  You  don't?  Why,  ever  since,  our  family  has  been 
known  as  Hyde;  and  has  perpetuated  the  habit  of 
bloodless  victories. 

(Chase  yawns  widely.) 
GRACE.     We'll  excuse  you. 
CHASE     For  what? 
BESS.     That  yawn. 

CHASE.  It  needs  no  excuse ;  the  yawn  at  times  is  very 
expressive.  [He  crosses  to  the  harp.]  Myriam,  come; 
play  us  that  little  dream  song  you  played  for  me  last 
time.  I  have  thought  of  it  often  since.  I  liked  it 
greatly. 

GRACE. 
BESS. 

HYDE.  Speaking  of  songs,  have  you  heard  the  latest  by 
Jack  Riley?  It's  a  rattler.  I'll  get  it  for  you,  Miss 
Myriam. 

MYR.     No,  I  haven't  heard  it,  Mr.  Hyde;    I  don't  wish  to 
hear  it;  please  do  not  get  it  for  me. 

27 


CE.    ) 

,       r  Oh,  please  do. 


THE   WOOING 

CHASE.  [Sings]  "And  she  poked  him  with  her  hat-pin  in 
the  gizzard." 

MYR.     Why,  Mr.  Chase,  I  am  astonished — You! 
CHASE.     That's  a  line  of  the  latest. 

HYDE.  Sure;  ain't  it  a  cracker  jack,  Chase?  The  boys  are 
going  wild  over  it. 

MYR.  I  never  heard  of  the  boys,  as  you  call  them,  going 
wild  over  anything  good.  Music,  I  am  pleased  to 
think,  is  the  highest  of  all  the  arts — the  most  spirit- 
uelle,  ministering  to  the  refinements  and  nobler  as- 
pirations. But,  most  of  all,  it  vibrates  in  the  treasure 
nooks  of  the  human  heart  where  lie  the  joys  and  sor- 
rows, the  hopes  or  fears,  which  we  may  not  speak  in 
words — but  only  in  music  find  their  fitting  symbols. 
Do  you  know,  I  like  to  think  that  when  the  course  of 
the  world  shall  have  been  rounded  into  its  destined 
poetic  truth,  the  message  of  that  great  pure  song 
will  be  human  sympathy ;  love  as  men  but  dream  it 
now — though  some  may  taste,  perhaps,  those  who 
love  harmonies— harmonies  which  live  ever  with  them 
here — here  within  the  breast:  harmonies  which  can 
waft  the  soul  out  of  the  painful  in  our  daily  surround- 
ings ;  waft  it  into  the  sky  where  only  the  angels  dwell 
— the  angels  of  our  inmost  heart's  expression. 

I  heard  a  little  song,  to-day,  played  by  a  street  vio- 
linist. I  have  wondered  since  if  he  knew  the  depth  of 
his  own  interpretation.  [A  pause.] 

HYDE.     What  was  the  piece? 

MYR.  I  don't  know;  I  wish  I  did — if  you  could  get  that 
for  me — perhaps  I  can  recall  it — [She  turns  to  the 

28 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

harp,  and  at  the  moment,  Paolo,  outside,  begins  to 
play  the  piece.     All  listen  intently.]    That  is  it! 

CHASE.     How  beautiful!   Exquisite! 

MYR.     It  must  be  the  same  who  played  to-day. 

GRACE.     It's  heavenly! — I'd  like  to  see  him. 

HYDE.  Oh!  This  highfaluting  gabble  of  art,  that  you 
people  indulge  yourselves  in  so  frequently,  is  too 
many  for  my  comprehension;  and  I  am  of  the  opin- 
ion that  if  you  were  really  honest,  you'd  confess  to 
the  same  condition  in  yourselves. 

CHASE.     Oh,  you  are  all  wrong,  Hyde. 

GRACE.     You  are  rude. 

HYDE.     I'll  prove  it  if  you  dare! 

MYR.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  daring,  it  is  a  matter  of  breed- 
ing: for  to  be  musical  is  to  be  well  bred. 

HYDE.  You  take  delight  in  taunting  me,  don't  you?  But 
time  brings  on  her  revenges :  let  me  have  mine  now. 

MYR.     What  is  it? 

HYDE.     Let  me  call  in  that  street  Arab  to  prove  my  point. 

ALL.     Yes,  do.     [As  Myriam  hesitates.] 

GRACE.     Oh,  please  do. 

MIYR.     Willingly. 

(She  speaks  to  CHASE,  aside,  and  he  EXITS.     HYDE 
crosses  to  a  window,  Left.) 

29 


THE   WOOING 

HYDE.  [At  window  ]  I  say,  there,  you  fellow;  you  fellow 
with  the  fiddle,  come  to  the  door  a  moment — I  say, 
you,  with  the  fiddle!  [He  turns  from  the  window.] 
Damned  idiot.  [Aside.] 

MYR.     I  have  asked  Mr.  Chase  to  invite  him  in. 

HYDE.  All  right.  Now  this  is  what  you'll  find:  a  low 
Italian,  from  some  squalid  basement  in  the  Ghetto, 
with  intelligence  just  enough  to  carry  a  tune  and 
steal.  And  yet  he  can  discourse  most  delectably  in 
this  mystic  poetry  of  the  scales — to  borrow  your  artis- 
tic twaddle. 

BESS.     Say,  but  this  is  exciting. 

GRACE.     I  am  dying  to  see  what  he  will  be  like. 

(ENTER,  PAOLO  and  CHASE.   PAOLO  has  his  violin 
under  his  arm.) 

CHASE.     Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  is  Paolo  Adremollo. 

MYR.  I  am  glad  you  consented  to  bring  your  music 
nearer. 

PAOLO.     I  hope  it  may  please  you,  lady. 
HYDE.     I  flew  wide  on  the  looks.     [Aside.] 
MYR.     I  am  sure  it  will ;  I  have  heard  you  before. 

PAOLO.  Yes,  it  was  to-day,  in  Hamlin  Square  by  the 
fountain. 

GRACE.     He's  really  fine  looking,  isn't  he?     [To  Bess.] 
BESS.     Oh,  those  dream  eyes!     [To  Grace.] 

30 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

HYDE.  Come,  now,  fellow,  give  us  your  liveliest;  we  are 
fit  for  a  jig.  [He  throws  a  dollar  at  Paolo's  feet.] 

BESS.  Oh,  a  waltz ;  please  play  a  waltz,  Mr. — what's  his 
name?  [Giggles.] 

GRACE.     Careful,  Bess,  dear. 

BESS.  Can't  you  play  us  one  of  the  Waldteufels  ?  I  dote  on 
them. 

PAOLO.  You  will  pardon  me,  sir;  you  are  right,  I  play 
for  money,  and  you  are  very  generous,  but  to-night 
you  will  let  me  play  for  the  joy  I  take  in  playing. 

HYDE.     The  devil!     [Aside.] 
CHASE.     Guess  again,  Hyde. 

PAOLO.  [Turning  from  Hyde]  Besides,  I  play  jigs  but 
seldom.  [To  Bess.]  The  Waldteufel  waltzes,  I  have 
heard,  I  believe;  I  do  not  play  them. 

MYR.     Of  what  are  you  most  fond? 

PAOLO.  Oh,  Madam,  I  cannot  say ;  anything  that  was 
written  because  it  must  be  written — of  such,  all  of  us 
are  fond. 

CHASE.     You  think  that  art  is  made  up  of  messages  then? 

PAOLO.  I  do,  indeed.  The  joy  or  heart-break,  the  aspira- 
tion or  despair  of  men  is  thus  written  in  perfect  his- 
tories. 

MYR.  And  is  there  a  special  audience  for  them — for  whom 
are  these  histories  written? 

PAOLO.     I  should  say,  for  all  to  whom  they  appeal. 

31 


THE   WOOING 

CHASE.  Some  there  may  be,  unable  to  read  the  story  of 
the  notes.  [He  digs  Hyde.] 

PAOLO.  I  am  sure  that  only  a  few  appreciate  the  finest 
music.  That  is  forced  upon  me  every  day  when  I 
note  those  who  listen  to  me,  and  those  who  pass  by 
unheeding. 

HYDE.  It  strikes  me  that  you  have  a  large  conceit  of  your 
own  fiddling. 

PAOLO.  You  will  excuse  the  vanity  peculiar  to  the  mu- 
sician :  but,  sir,  what  I  play  is  my  own ;  they  are  my 
only  treasures  on  earth;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  natural 
that  I  should  notice  and  be  attracted  to  those  who  no- 
tice and  are  attracted  to  that  which  is  a  part  of  my- 
self. 

MYR.  How  interestingly  you  speak.  I  have  thought  some- 
what as  you  have  spoken;  in  fact — 

PAOLO.  You  are  a  musician,  lady?  Will  you  not  play  for 
me? 

MYR.     Gladly !  But  we  shall  play  together. 
PAOLO.     Ah,  I  should  like  that. 

(MYRIAM  turns  to  the  harp,  again,  and  begins  to  play 
PAOLO'S  piece;  he  starts;  presently  takes  up  his  -violin, 
and  they  play  together.  After  a  few  bars,  GLENDON, 
passing  through  the  hallway,  pauses  a  moment  in  the  arch- 
way. He  appears  to  be  worried,  and  passes  on.  Presently 
MYRIAM  makes  an  error  in  her  accompaniment,  and  stops 
playing.  PAOLO  continues  a  brief  space  alone.) 

32 


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2S 


THE   WOOING 

PAOLO.  Do  you  not  like  playing  with  me;  why  did  you 
stop? 

MYR.  Your  improvisation  becomes  too  intricate  for  me  to 
anticipate  readily. 

CHASE.     Try  again,  it  was  beautiful. 
GRACE.     Could  you  write  that  for  me? 

PAOLO.  If  I  could  recall  it — often  I  fail  though  I  try  a  mo~ 
ment  after  playing  some  such  new  air.  Like  spirits, 
they  come  and  go  without  the  bidding  of  one's  will ; 
and,  I  think,  that  one  is  least  conscious  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  them. 

MYR.     Go  on,  please. 
PAOLO.     I  fear  I  shall  offend. 


GRACE.  )  -,, 

BESS.     [  Oh>  no>  no' 


PAOLO.  Not  long  since,  I  sat  of  an  evening  strumming 
my  thumb  on  the  strings,  and  thinking  what  God  in 
his  mercy  might  give  with  the  future  to  me.  I  was 
lost  so  deep  in  the  reverie  that  all  else  had  faded 
from  sense;  I  even  knew  not  that  I  was  playing,  nor 
knew  of  the  passage  of  time ;  but  a  foot- fall  beside  me 
recalled  me,  as  one  wakes  from  a  beautiful  dream, 
and  I  realized  that  something  divine  had  breathed  on 
my  soul  in  its  passing.  I  looked  up ;  the  abbess  Mil- 
licent  was  standing  beside  me.  She  smiled,  a  calm 
lustre  surcharging  her  wonderful  eyes,  as  she  said, 
"That  was  beautiful — beautiful,  Paolo ;  you  will  write 
that  for  me,  and  I  shall  word  it  for  you,  then  the 
world  may  have  it  and  understand."  But  I  never 

34 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

could  recall  one  measure.  Try  as  I  did  so  eagerly, 
almost  prayerfully,  time,  and  time,  and  again,  noth- 
ing would  come,  but  the  tantalizing  memory  of  a 
glory  now  gone  forever. 

MYR.     You  were  at  the  abbey? 

PAOLO.     Yes,  the  abbess  is  my  teacher  and  friend. 

(ENTER,  GLENDONJ 
MYR.     Father,  you  are  come  so  early!  [With  surprise.] 

GLEN.  I  am  a  little  earlier  than  I  had  expected  to  be — I 
hope  I  do  not  intrude. 

MYR.  You  are  the  most  welcome  of  all  where  my  true 
friends  gather. 

GLEN.  Child,  child,  will  you  always  make  a  spectacle  of 
your  doting  old  dad? 

CHASE.     He  rather  seems  to  like  it,  I  should  say. 
GLEN.     Who  wouldn't? 

CHASE,    j  We  never  could  guess.       [They  laugh  and  clap 
HYDE.      |  each  other  on  the  shoulder.] 

MYR.     Mr.  Adremollo,  this  is  my  father,  Mr.  Glendon. 

GLEN.  Glad  to  meet  you,  sir.  You  are  musical  I  see ;  and 
so  have  had  congenial  company. 

HYDE.     I  have  been  the  only  string  out  of  tune,  Glendon. 

GLEN.  Well,  well,  Hyde,  discord  in  concord,  you  know. 
[Aside  to  Hyde]  I  wish  you  would  remain  a  few  mo- 
ments after  the  rest  go,  I've  a  matter  I  wish  to  con- 
sult you  upon. 

35 


THE   WOOING 

HYDE.     Certainly. 

GRACE.  Oh,  Mr.  Adremollo,  won't  you  play  again — for 
Mr.  Glendon? 

BESS.  [To  Paolo]  Oh,  please  do.  [To  Glendon]  You  have 
missed  a  lot  by  going  out 

CHASE.     Possibly  he  saved  a  lot,  too. 
GLEN.     A  whole  block.     [All  laugh.] 

HYDE.  [Aside]  I  wonder  now.  [Suggestive  of  a  shrewd 
doubt] 

MYR.    Yes,  let  us  play  for  father;  he  is  appreciative. 

PAOLO.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me.  If  it  be  not  dis- 
courteous, I  must  take  my  leave. 

GLEN.  The  wills  of  this  house  are  one,  Mr.  Adremollo. 
My  daughters  request — and  her  guests' — signifies  my 
own — will  you  not  play  for  us? 

GRACE.     Yes,  yes. 
BESS.    Oh,  do. 

PAOLO.  You  have  been  more  kind  to  me  than  you  know. 
I  thank  you,  madam,  for  the  favor  I  have  enjoyed 
this  night:  but  I  am  compelled  to  go. 

MYR.  Perhaps  there  is  favor  upon  the  other  side  as  well. 
[Which  was  but  a  frank  proffer  of  appreciation.] 

PAOLO.  Possibly  you  would  not  deny  me  the  privilege  of 
coming  again,  sometime.  [Myriam  questions  her 
father  in  a  look  which  Paolo  misconstrues.]  I  have 

36 


OF  A  VIOLIN 

obtruded;  pray,  forgive  me.  [But  Mr.  Glendon  looks 
an  affirmation  in  reply  to  Myriam's  questioning 
glance.] 

MYB.     Father  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you  come. 

(GRACE  and  BESS  comments  upon  this  apart.) 
HYDE.    Whew!     [Aside.] 

(PAOLO  bows  himself  from  the  company  and  EXITS.) 

HYDE:  For  heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Glendon,  squelch  that; 
don't  yon  see  what  the  idiot's  doing? 

GLEN.     Perfectly  proper,  Hyde. 

HYDE.  Don't  be  bund,  man.  Why  it's  a  cinch  that  the 
Dago  is  working  Miss  Mvriam  to  a  finish. 

GLEN.  What?  Oh,  ha,  ha,  I  gave  you  credit  for  sober- 
headedness,  Hyde. 

HYDE.  [Quieting  Glendon  with  a  gesture]  Look  here 
a  moment.  [They  talk  together  apart  from  the  others.] 

BESS.    Well,  dear,  it  is  high  time  we  were  going. 
GRACE.     I  think  so,  too. 

MYR.  Awfully  good  of  you  to  come  in;  wasn't  the  vio- 
linist interesting? 

BESS.  I'm  no  longer  whole  heart  free — ah,  those  dream 
eyes — [She  sighs  and  laughs,  making  light  of  her  ad- 
miration.] 

GRACE.     Really  a  man  of  finest  temperament,  isn't  he? 

CHASE.  Yes,  he  is,  and  manly!  We  shall  hear  more  of 
him  and  his  violin,  or  1  lose  my  guess. 

37 


THE   WOOING 

GRACE.     Well,  good  night. 
BESS.     Good  night,  Myriam. 

(EXIT,  GRACE,  CHASE  and  BESS.) 

MYR.  [In  archway]  Good  night,  all.  You  will  come 
again  soon. 

CHASE.  [From  off]  When  the  fiddler  plays  again  and 
the  harp  strings  are  in  tune. 

(Sings  to  refrain  of  "When  the  Robins  Nest  Again." 
Laughter  dies  away  into  the  street;  and  MYRIAM  comes 
down.) 

HYDE.  Well,  I  hope  you  may  be  right,  that's  all.  [To 
Glendon.] 

GLEN.  [To  Myriam]  You  will  permit  Mr.  Hyde  and  my- 
self to  have  a  few  minutes,  Myriam ;  come  back  after 
a  bit ;  we  shall  want  you,  dear. 

MYR.     Truly  ? 
GLEN.     Truly. 

MYR.  All  right — when  you  call.  [And  she  goes  off  hap- 
pily humming  to  herself.] 

GLEN.  You  know  of  the  rumor  on  'change  to-day,  relative 
to  the  big  merger? 

HYDE.     Yes,  it's  a  go.  I  believe. 

GLEN.  I  fear  it  is,  for  it  is  making  me  trouble.  I  have 
been  an  individual  producer  for  years ;  in  fact,  since 
'68 :  and  have  built  up  a  valuable  property,  sufficient 
for  all  the  needs  of  a  man  who  is  sane  in  finance.  I 

38 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

was  born  to  be  independent;  I  want  my  own;  and 
have  withstood  the  offers,  bribes  and  threats  of  this 
combine,  with  the  hope  of  keeping  my  plant  as  long 
as  I  may  live. 

HYDE.  I  sympathize  with  you  fully.  You  well  may  be 
proud  of  the  industries  in  your  name. 

GLEN.  Dut  it  has  come  to  the  point  where  I  must  have 
assistance,  and  that  at  once.  The  Maxwells  are  do- 
ing me  up.  Sales  fell  off  fifty  per  cent  last  month, 
and,  to-day,  I  learn  that  I'll  have  to  meet  their  prices 
under  actual  cost  of  production.  Hyde,  it  is  just  the 
same  as  murder — they  are  trying  to  murder  Myriam, 
and  me,  and  our  people  of  the  factories.  It's  begin- 
ning to  get  on  my  nerves  a  bit.  [He  shows  nervous- 
ness.] 

HYDE.  Oh,  no;  all  you'll  have  to  do  is  to  borrow  to  tide 
over  the  squeeze. 

GLEN.  That's  the  very  difficulty.  The  rascals  have  tied 
up  all  the  resources  from  which  I  have  drawn,  here- 
tofore, when  in  an  emergency  my  business  needed 
cash.  Wetherell  and  I  have  canvassed  the  situation 
carefully,  and  we  are  convinced  that  we  shall  go  to 
the  wall  to-morrow,  unless  some  one  can  be  found  to 
extend  the  helping  hand. 

HYDE.     Is  it  possible? 

GLEN.  Hyde,  as  purely  a  business  proposition,  couldn't 
you  find,  say,  twenty  thousand  for  us  to-morrow 
morning?  [He  exhibits  quite  perceptible  anxiety.] 

HYDE.  Twenty  thousand,  and  the  firm  of  Maxwell  & 
Boynton  against  you? 

39 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.  Yes,  but  what  of  that?  We're  not  going  to  fail! 
It  would  be  too  hideously  immoral  for  them  to  do  it. 

HYDE.     I'm  not  so  sure  of  the  morality  of  these  combines. 

GLEN.  But  I  have  always  had  faith  in  humanity,  and  it 
never,  never  has  proved  false  to  me  yet.  What!  Sac- 
rifice my  darling  girl  and  me,  in  my  old  age,  to  their 
lust  of  gain?  Oh,  no;  no,  sir!  You  would  be  per- 
fectly safe,  perfectly  safe;  rely  on  my  word,  my 
friend;  rely  on  my  word,  for  my  word,  I  take  pride, 
is  better  than  my  bond. 

HYDE.     That  was  true — yesterday. 

GLEN.  True  yesterday?  And  for  twice  three  hundred  to- 
morrows! [He  speaks  with  growing  excitement.] 

HYDE.  I  sincerely  wish  it  were  so;  but  your  bond  is 
worthless  on  'change  to-day,  and  that  makes  your 
word  but  the  thing  of  breath  it  is. 

GLEN.     Gods,  what  are  you  saying,  man? 
HYDE.     I  am  merely  indulging  in  plain  facts. 

GLEN.  Do  you  forget  that  you  are  in  my  house,  sir?  It 
will  be  my  pleasure  to  bid  you  good-night. 

HYDE.  Your  nerves  are  at  a  little  tension,  to-night,  Mr. 
Glendon.  I  shall  not  go  yet,  however,  for  I  intend  to 
assist  you. 

GLEN.  Pardon  me,  Hyde,  old  fellow ;  I'm  not  quite  myself 
to-night.  You  are  right;  I  am  worried — have  been  so 
long — I  fear  I  am  getting  old,  for  I  can't  stand  what 
I  could  once — I'm  getting  old — and  I'm — 

40 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

HYDE.  No !  no !  not  a  bit  of  it ;  ha,  ha,  you  are  a  little  off 
color  to-night,  but  to-morrow  you'll  be  fit  as  a  boy. 
However,  it  might  be  expedient  to  have  a  little  reli- 
able backing  in  some  young  fellow  who  has  resources 
and  courage  to  use  them. 

GLEN.  Yes,  yes,  that's  it.  That's  why  I  came  to  you.  I 
must  have  more  than  financial  aid — I  have  proved 
that  this  night. 

HYDE.     I  can  help  you;  and  I  will — with  a  proviso. 
GLEN.     Thank  God,  how  you  have  relieved  me. 

HYDE.  Mr.  Glendon,  I  have  greatly  admired  your  daugh- 
ter for  a  long  time.  And  I  mean  to  win  her  for  my 
wife. 

GLEN.     I  have  no  objections  whatsoever. 

HYDE.  But  more  than  that,  I  must  have  your  support.  I 
don't  appeal  to  that  superfine  fancy  of  hers.  I  can't 
rave  over  the  gewgaws  of  art ;  and  I  have  a  good  bad 
habit  of  speaking  my  mind,  as  you  have  observed. 

GLEN.     A  quality  that  I  admire. 

HYDE.  Now,  Chase  appeals  to  her  because  he  is  senti- 
mental ;  a  sort  of  moonlight,  guitar  simpering  fellow 
who  couldn't  make  a  stroke  in  stocks  to  save  his  life. 
And  that  damned  Dago — gods!  [Aside]  I'll  be  re- 
venged for  this  night. 

GLEN.     No,  no,  you  are  wild  there,  Hyde. 

HYDE.  Not  on  your  life!  Now,  with  the  girl  bent  this 
way,  a  practical  man  has  no  show.  And  I  propose 
this:  I'll  see  you  through  this  crisis  if  you'll  fix  my 
standing  with  Miss  Myriam. 

41 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.     No,  Hyde,  I  can't  do  that. 

HYDE.  You  refuse  me?  [With  an  ugly  look  which  is  lost 
on  Glendon.] 

GLEN.  No,  not  that;  but  I  object  to  the  form.  I  like  you 
as  a  man,  and  am  willing  to  do  all  in  my  power,  hon- 
orably, to  center  Myriam's  attentions  upon  you. 
Then,  man  to  man,  in  purely  a  business  way,  you  will 
let  me  have  twenty  thousand  for,  say,  ninety  days. 
That  ought  to  be  satisfactory. 

HYDE.  It  is.  Meet  me  at  the  Merchants'  Exchange  to- 
morrow at  noon.  [They  shake  hands.] 

GLEN.  I  will  do  so  at  the  hour  appointed.  I  shall  ask  my 
daughter  to  see  you  for  a  moment  before  you  go. 

(EXIT,  GLENDON.) 

HYDE.  What  a  cinch  the  old  fool  is.  If  he  knew,  now, 
that  I  am  promoter  of  the  combine  which  is  destroy- 
ing him ;  and  that  my  will  alone  can  make  or  break 
him ;  and  mine  the  brains  behind  the  deals  engineered 
to  make  him  tractable — a  bloodless  victory!  Ha,  ha; 
[Looking  at  his  reflection  in  a  glass]  you  shrewd 
devil,  you! 

(ENTER,  MYRIAM,  Right.) 

HYDE.  Oh,  but  I  have  been  impatient  for  you,  my  charm- 
ing lady.  Come,  sit  here ;  I  have  something  to  say 
sweetly  attuned  to  thy  maiden  ear.  By  George!  I'll 
become  a  poet  for  you  yet. 

MYR.  May  I  sit  here,  please?  And  you  will  not  keep  me 
long,  I  know,  for  father  is  waiting.  [They  remain 
standing.] 

42 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

HYDE.  The  same  old  cuts !  Are  you  never  going  to  change 
toward  me? 

MYR.     Don't  be  disagreeable,  Mr.  Hyde. 

HYDE.  Look  here,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you;  and 
I'm  coming  to  the  point. 

MYR.     Thank  you. 

HYDE.  Your  father  is  a  bankrupt.  His  business  goes  into 
my  hands  to-morrow  unless  you  brighten  up  a  little 
towards  me. 

MYR.  Do  you  so  lack  the  instincts  of — oh,  what  shall  I 
say? 

HYDE.  Yes,  if  you  will  have  it  that  way — I'll  be  treated 
like  a  dog  by  no  woman;  not  even  by  you,  whom  I 
love  better  than  anyone  else  on  earth.  If  you've  been 
bluffing  me,  as  I  half  suspect  you  have,  I'll  call  you 
now — Myriam,  I — I  love  you. 

MYR.     Sir,  I  wish  I  could  treat  your  avowal  with  respect. 

HYDE.  You  will  treat  it  so  before  we  are  through;  by 
heaven,  I  am  of  a  mind — 

MYR.     Will  you  leave  me  now? 

HYDE.     No!  not  until  I  tell  you  this: — 

MYR.     I  will  not  hear  it!     [She  starts  to  leave  the  room.] 

HYDE.  You  shall  hear  it.  [He  seizes  her  and  crushes  her 
to  him.]  Oh,  you  beautiful  torment,  don't  you  feel 
how  I  love  you?  You  will,  you  must  be  my  wife. 

MYR.     Let  me  go  instantly,  or  I  shall  call. 

HYDE.  After  this,  and  this,  and  this.  [He  kisses  her  re- 
peatedly.] 

43 


THE   WOOING 

(They  struggle  across  to  a  table  where  MYRIAM,  reach- 
ing for  support,  strikes  upon  a  bell.  Thereupon  HYDE  re- 
leases her.) 

(ENTER,  CLEM.) 

MYR.  Mr.  Hyde  feels  that  he  must  go;  please  show  him 
to  the  door.  [Hyde  hesitates,  a  baffled  expression  on 
his  face.] 

CLEM.  Your  hat  is  in  the  vestibule,  suh.  [With  counte- 
nance flushing  in  acknowledged  defeat,  Hyde  follows 
Clem  from  the  room.] 

(MYRIAM  goes  to  the  glass,  smoothes  her  hair,  arranges 
apparel.  She  pauses  in  doubt;  makes  up  her  mind,  and  EXITS 
hastily  by  the  door,  Right,  through  which  her  father  went  a 
few  moments  before.) 

(ENTER,  CLEM.  He  shows  that  he  is  much  troubled 
while  he  busies  himself  about  the  furniture;  he  goes,  Left,  be- 
fore MYRIAM  and  GLEN  DON  ENTER.  During  the  quar- 
rel he  quietly  EXITS.) 

(ENTER  GLENDON,  followed  by  MYRIAM.  GLEN- 
DON  is  -very  nervous  and  over-wrought.) 

MYR.     The  man  shall  never  enter  this  house  again. 

GLEN.  My  child,  my  child,  we  are  compelled  to  treat  him 
with  consideration. 

MYR.  Compelled !  The  person  does  not  exist  that  can  c.om- 
pel  me  against  my  will. 

GLEN.     Is  this  Myriam? 

MYR.  It  is  Myriam !  I  tell  you  that  I  have  suffered  insult 
at  the  hands  of  this  man,  and  you  tell  me  to  ignore 
it — not  only  that,  but  to  place  myself  in  position  for  a 
repetition  of  the  wretched  thing.  I  answer  you,  no! 
It  is  monstrous !  I  think  you  do  not  know  what  you 
are  saying ! 

44 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

GLEN.  To-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Hyde  will  save  the 
Glendon  factories  to  you  and  to  me.  Thereafter,  you 
shall  treat  him  with  becoming  favors — and  promise 
him  your  hand  if  he  ask  it!  [With  deliberate  empha- 
sis.] 

MYR.     Have  you  two  subscribed  to  such  a  compact? 

GLEN.  Not  until  this  moment — but  now  I  do.  If  you  can 
forget  your  old  father  in  his  great  extremity,  he  will 
exact  of  you  the  uttermost  of  filial  obedience. 

MYR.  And  I  repudiate  it.  If  an  aged  parent,  in  an  over- 
wrought moment,  sells  his  daughter  for  such  and 
such  matter  of  sheds,  housing  squalor  and  abomina- 
tion; so  much  of  stocks,  whose  every  face  is  a  private 
lie;  so  much  of  elegance  schemed  from  the  world's 
supply  at  the  expense  of  half  requited  labor —  [Glen- 
don falls  fainting.]  Oh,  what  am  I  saying!  Those 
wild  words  are  untrue.  [She  cries  hysterically.] 
Father,  I  was  mad ;  forgive  me,  forgive  me ;  I  did  not 
mean  a  word  of  it,  not  one  syllable.  You  are  kind  to 
your  men — kind  to  everybody — father! 

Clem,  come  quickly! 
(ENTER,  CLEM.) 
Father  has  fainted,  I  think. 

(CLEM  kneels  beside  his  master,  and  lovingly  assists 
MYRIAM  in  her  attempts  to  restore  consciousness  to  him 
who  is  sore  stricken.) 


[CURTAIN.] 


45 


THE   WOOING 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  1.  (The  intersection  of  two  streets.  The  GLEN- 
DON  home  is  seen  well  up  and  to  the  Left.  There  is  an  iron 
fence  before  the  house  and  steps  approach  the  entrance.  At 
rise  of  curtain  there  enter  from  back,  NIZETTA  and 
PIERRE.  They  draw  slowly  toward  GLENDON'S  resi- 
dence. NIZETTA  shows  strong  dislike  of  the  place  and  is 
gloomy.  Presently  she  and  PIERRE  sit  in  shadow  upon  the 
steps.  HYDE  then  ENTERS;  as  he  approaches  from  back, 
PIERRE  meets  him  with  extended  hand  for  alms.  HYDE 
pushes  PIERRE  out  of  his  way  roughly;  whereupon  NI- 
ZETTA springs  up,  and,  posing  with  a  smile  before  HYDE, 
extends  her  tambourine.  HYDE  pauses;  is  pleased  with  NI- 
ZETTA, and  tosses  a  piece  of  money  into  the  tambourine.) 

HYDE.     Egad!  But  you've  no  business  begging,  my  pretty 
wench. 

(He  withdraws  into  a  deep  shadow.) 
Niz.     Thank  you,  sir. 
HYDE.     Here,  here's  a  mate  for  the  coin  I  gave  you. 

(NIZETTA   extends  her  tambourine  as  before.) 
HYDE.     No,  no,  come  and  get  it. 
Niz.     Don't  you  think  it — you'll  be  a  disappointed  man. 

(HYDE,  laughing  coarsely,  passes  on.  NIZETTA  and 
PIERRE  sit  down  on  the  steps  again.  ENTER  a  THUG, 
Right.  HYDE  and  the  THUG  meet  down  Center.) 

THUG.     Well,  I'm  here,  sir. 

HYDE.     You  are  punctual,  all  right — see  that  you  do  the 
job  as  satisfactorily. 

46 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

THUG.     Trust  me. 

HYDE.  Not  a  trust!  I  pay  you,  see?  And  I  expect  to 
get  what  I  pay  for. 

THUG.  Suit  yourself;  I'll  deliver  the  goods  all  right.  Just 
so  you  provide  the  dough. 

HYDE.  It's  ready  when  the  job's  done  to  my  liking. 

THUG.  You  say  it's  fifty? 

HYDE.  If  you  do  him  up. 

THUG.  The  fifty's  mine,  all  right.     Where's  the  house? 

HYDE.  The  brown  stone  up  there.  It's  about  time  for  the 
Dago  to  be  along ;  he  passes  here  every  night  at  about 
this  time.  I'll  go  across  the  street,  and,  when  the  right 
one  comes  by,  I'll  give  a  low  whistle — then  get  busy. 

THUG.     I'm  your  lad.    Good  thing  the  light's  not  on. 

HYDE.  Yes ;  circuit  must  be  out  of  order — luck  seems  with 
us. 

(ENTER  PAOLO  from  back,  with  violin.) 

HYDE.  There  he  comes — that's  the  Dago  I  want.  Now 
show  me  you're  an  artist. 

(HYDE  crosses  the  street,  Right.  PAOLO  pauses  before 
the  house  and  begins  to  play  his  little  love  song.  The  THUG 
moves  slowly  toward  him.  NIZETTA  and  PIERRE  get  up 
unseen  and  walk  across  and  up  the  street.  The  shutters  of  a 
window  open  in  the  house  and  light  streaming  through  shows 
MYRIAM  is  there.) 

Niz.  [In  ugly  spirit]  Hello,  my  fine  lady;  open  your 
window  wider;  here's  your  beggar  lover  playing  for 


some  soup 


47 


THE   WOOING 

(PAOLO  turns  in  hurt  surprise.  With  wild  laughter,  NI- 
ZETTA  starts  to  run  up  with  PIERRE;  glancing  over  her 
shoulder,  she  sees  the  THUG  about  to  strike  PAOLO  with  a 
sandbag — she  screams.  PAOLO  steps  quickly  aside,  but  re- 
ceives a  glancing  blow  which  makes  him  stagger,  and  his 
violin  falls  to  the  ground.  PAOLO  and  the  THUG  grapple 
•fiercely.  With  his  hand  clutching  the  THUG'S  throat,  PAO- 
LO forces  him  backward  upon  the  fence.  NIZETTA  leaves 
PIERRE  up  street,  Right,  and,  coming  down,  tries  to  help 
PAOLO  in  the  encounter.  PAOLO  prevents  her  doing  so.) 

PAOLO.     No,  no,  not  so  savage.    [To  Nizetta.] 

(During  this  struggle,  HYDE  crosses  the  street  and  picks 
up  the  violin,  which,  in  the  contention,  has  been  kicked  into  the 
gutter.  With  malicious  gratification,  he  breaks  the  precious 
instrument  over  his  knee  and  throws  the  pieces  upon  GLEN- 
DON'S  porch.  He  then  passes  swiftly  on,  and  EXITS  at  the 
rear.) 

THUG.     [Gurgling]    Enough — you've  got  me! 

(PAOLO  raises  the  THUG  from  the  fence,  and  throws 
him  violently  upon  the  pavement,  where  he  lies  a  short  space, 
making  no  effort  to  rise.  PAOLO  restrains  NIZETTA  who 
would  rush  upon  the  miscreant.) 

PAOLO.  Poor  wretch,  why  did  you  attack  me? 

THUG.  I  was  hired  to,  mister. 

PAOLO.  Hired  to?    Who  could  have  done  that? 

THUG.  Will  you  let  me  go  if  I  tell  you? 

PAOLO.  I  should  let  you  go  in  any  case. 

THUG.  [Getting  up]  Thank  you,  mister.  [Backing  slow- 
ly away.]  Don't  play  under  the  window  any  more, 
young  fellow. 

(Saying  this,  he  turns  and  runs — NIZETTA  following  a 
few  steps.  PAOLO  stands  in  deep  thought.) 

48 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

Niz.     [Coming  back  to  Paolo]    Are  you  hurt,  Paolo? 

PAOLO.  I  think  not — no,  I  am  not  hurt  at  all.  I  wish  you 
would  go  to  the  abbey  for  me  and  tell  Mother  Milli- 
cent  that  I  shall  not  come  for  my  lesson  to-night.  I 
shall  be  there  as  usual  to-morrow. 

Niz.     I  will.     Where  are  you  going  now? 
PAOLO.     Home. 

Niz.  [Jealously]  If  you  stay  here,  I  won't  go  a  step  for 
you. 

PAOLO.     I  am  going  now,  Nizetta. 

Niz.  I'll  be  there  and  home  awful  quick!  Let's  see  who 
gets  there  first! 

PAOLO.     All  right ;  now  for  a  race ;  off  with  you. 

(EXIT   NIZETTA,  taking  PIERRE,  and  running  back.) 

PAOLO.  "Don't  play  under  the  window."  "Beggar  lover 
playing  for  some  soup" — Oh,  God,  does  malice,  mis- 
trust and  envy  exist  concomitant  with  my  love?  Why, 
why,  oh,  love  divine,  are  these  dregs  of  rue  in  love's 
sweet  wine? 

I  have  no  right  to  seek  her,  yet  I  cannot  stay 
away.  Hands,  for  what  were  you  made  that  you 
hang  so  idle  here?  Oh,  I  am  impotent;  impotent  of 
every  means — I,  who  have  the  greatest  incentive  to 
make  for  myself  a  place  and  name,  thus  to  stand 
about  while  others  nobly  strive! 

(NIZETTA  steals  in  again,  and,  seeing  PAOLO,  secrets 
herself  where  she  may  watch  proceedings.  The  street  lights 
Hash  on;  and  now  there  enter,  from  several  directions,  work- 
men from  GLENDON'S  factories,  who  gather  in  the  street. 
Two  workmen  approach  PAOLO  from  Left.) 

49 


THE   WOOING 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     [To   Paolo]     Upa  the  streeta  a  little 

farther,  comrade. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     [Passing  Paolo]    Well,  come  on,  get 

into  the  push! 

(PAOLO  turns  and  observes  the  gathering.  More  work- 
men and  a  number  of  women  come  on.  Two  men  approach 
from  Right.  PAOLO  moves  to  meet  them.) 

PAOLO.     What's  the  business  here  to-night? 

THIRD  WORKMAN.  A  meeting  of  an  educational  commit- 
tee— we  give  a  lesson  to  tyrant  capital,  in  a  few  min- 
utes. 

FOURTH  WORKMAN.  We're  going  to  open  old  Glendon's 
ears  with  a  rock — he's  been  too  hard  of  hearing. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     [Up  street]  To  hella  witha  plutocracy! 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     We'll  send  part  of  it  there  to-night. 

(A  general  laugh.    NIZETTA  and  PIERRE  join  mob.) 
A  BOY.     We'll  bust  the  old  miser's  head  for  'im. 

A  WOMAN.  Come  out  from  yer  meat  and  wine  and  give 
us  a  crust  of  bread! 

(General  approval,  such  as  cries  of  "that's  what,"  "good," 
"good,"  and  the  like.) 

A  VOICE.     We'll  have  our  wages  and  our  rights! 

THIRD  WORKMAN.  Quiet,  men!  Here  comes  Mike  De- 
laney — now  mind,  we  do  what  he  says ;  de  ye  under- 
stand ? 

(The  mob  opens,  and  MIKE  DELANEY  ENTERS, 
Right.) 

MIKE.  Shut  yer  yaps !  Be  civil  till  we  ask  him  out ;  then, 
if  he  refuses  us,  we'll  do  our  duty  by  our  families. 

50 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

Out  of  the  way,  boys.    [He  mounts  the  steps.]    Now 
quiet,  I  say.     [He  rings  the  door-bell.] 

PAOLO.  [Down  front]  Do  I  understand  aright  that  Mr. 
Glendon  owes  these  men  wages? 

A  WORKMAN.     That's  what  the  fracas  is  about,  boss. 

ANOTHER  WORKMAN.  Pay  day's  past  three  weeks  and  we 
ain't  got  nothin'  but  promises ;  but  we  get  somethin' 
else  to-night. 

(CLEM  opens  the  door.  PAOLO  turns  from  the  mob,  and 
raises  his  face  in  an  attitude  of  supplication.) 

MIKE.  Tell  your  master  a  committee  waits  at  his  door  to 
see  him. 

CLEM.  [Apprehensively]  Yes,  suh,  I  tells  Mars  Glen- 
don what  you  say. 

(EXIT,  CLEM,  closing  door.) 

MIKE.  [To  mob]  Pietro  was  shot  by  the  guards  last 
night,  you  know — he's  dead. 

(The  announcement  causes  great  excitement.) 

PAOLO.  If  thou  art  my  guardian  angel,  lead  thou  me  on. 
Yes,  yes,  I  understand  you — and  follow — follow. 

(EXIT,  PAOLO,  Left,  as  in  a  trance.) 

MIKE.  [To  a  fellow]  What?  naw,  we've  got  the  police  in 
Mulvaney's  back  room — two  of  'em  jagged  already. 

(CLEM  appears  at  the  door.) 

CLEM.     Mars  is  very  sick,  suh,  and  cain't  see  nobody. 
A  VOICE.     What's  that? 

MIKE.     The  word  is  that  Glendon's  sick  and  won't  see  us. 

51 


THE   WOOING 

•FIRST  WORKMAN.     The  hella  he  won'ta. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     Then  let's  go  in  and  see  him. 
THIRD  WORKMAN.     That's  what!   [Starts  up  steps.] 
FOURTH  WORKMAN.     In  we  go.    [Starts  up  steps.] 

ANOTHER  WORKMAN.     [On  steps]  We'll  be  a  sick  commit- 
tee and  wait  on  him.     [To  the  crowd.] 

CLEM.     I'm  sorry,  suh,  but  you  cain't  come  in ;  Mars — 

A  VOICE.     Bring  out  the  nigger;  let's  begin  with  the  nig- 
ger. 

ANOTHER  VOICE.     The  nigger  for  a  starter. 

(Many  press  toward  the  steps.  MIKE  attempts  to  go  in. 
CLEM  slams  the  door  on  his  foot,  which  prevents  the  door 
from  shutting.  Three  on  the  porch  force  the  door  open,  and 
drag  CLEM  down.  They  throw  him  into  crowd,  where  he  is 
beaten  and  kicked.) 

A  VOICE.     Let's  take  him  to  the  square. 
ANOTHER  VOICE.     Let's  have  a  hangin'  bee. 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Senda  him  where  Pietro  ees. 

(A  large  part  of  crowd  cheer  this  idea;  a  few  cry,  "No, 
no,"  and  protest  in  action.  The  crowd  grows  very  excited.) 

MIKE.     Easy  there,  we're  after  bigger  game,  boys. 
A  WORKMAN.     Let's  scare  the  old  coon  white. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.  Let'sa  burna  da  coon!    Come  on,  Mike, 
let'sa  burna  da  coon. 

SECOND  WORKMAN.     You're  a  devil — ha,  ha,  let's  do  it! 
THIRD  WORKMAN.     No,  heavens,  you're  carrying  it  too  far. 
A  VOICE.     Let's  burn  'im! 

52 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

(This  is  greeted  with  a  yell  of  approval,  mingled  with 
cries  of  dissent.) 

(FIRST  and  SECOND  WORKMEN  exchange  glances, 
and  plunge  into  the  mob;  others  start  with  one  intent,  and, 
seizing  CLEM,  they  hurry  him  off  with  cries  of  "Get  wood," 
"Bring  boxes,"  "A  can  of  oil,"  and  others  of  like  import.  Gen- 
eral tumult  follows,  and  the  crowd  jams  Right  exit.  MIKE, 
protesting  vigorously,  tries  to  dissuade  the  men  from  their 
purpose.  Three  men  draw  down  front.) 

(MYRIAM  appears  at  the  door;  she  pauses  on  the  thresh- 
old.) 

FIRST  MAN.     This  must  be  stopped  at  all  hazards. 
SECOND  MAN.     Why,  the  men  are  turned  into  beasts! 
MYRIAM.     Cowards!  Hands  off  the  old  man! 

(The  mob  rapidly  EXITS,  Right.  MYRIAM  comes  down 
the  steps.) 

What  are  they  going  to  do? 
FIRST  MAN.     I  am  afraid  nothing  good,  lady. 
MYR.     I  fear  it,  they  seem  bent  on  evil. 

THIRD  MAN.  They  are  giving  the  old  darkey  a  little 
scare,  lady;  that's  all. 

A  VOICE.     [From  off]    We're  going  to  burn  the  nigger! 
(A  yell  follows.) 

MYR.  Oh,  that  cannot  be!  Come,  come  with  me — if  it 
should  prove  as  you  say,  it  is  too  cruel  by  far — and 
they  may  mean  more,  for  their  voices  sound  wicked. 
We  must  save  the  poor  old  man. 

FIRST  MAN.     There  may  be  danger  to  you,  lady. 

SECOND  MAN. 
THIRD  MAN. 


N    ) 

r  '   f  We  will  if  it  is  possible,  madam. 


53 


THE   WOOING 

MYR.     Possible?  I  will  make  it  possible! 
(ALL  EXIT,  Right.) 

SCENE  2.  (A  reproduction  of  the  MARIONI  basement  on 
small  stage  back  of,  and  above,  the  set  for  Scene  i.) 

(ENTER  PAOLO.  He  strikes  a  match  and  lights  a  can- 
dle; carrying  it,  he  pauses  a  moment  at  the  door  of  sleeping 
room,  Left,  whispers,  "Asleep;"  then  moves  slowly  to  the 
center  of  the  room.  He  sinks  upon  his  knees,  and,  setting 
down  the  candle,  tries  to  insert  his  fingers  between  the  stones 
of  the  floor,  but  fails.  Suddenly  he  leaps  up,  springs  like  a 
tiger  to  the  cupboard,  takes  out  the  old  chisel,  as  MARIONI 
did  in  the  -first  act,  and  returns  to  Center.  He  attempts  again 
to  lift  the  stone.  He  tries  three  times.  At  last,  it  yields — he 
lifts  it,  and  discovers  the  pot  of  gold!  He  raises  the  treasure, 
and,  going  across  the  room,  takes  a  sack  from  a  corner,  and 
empties  the  money  into  it — whereupon  he  EXITS.  In  a  few 
moments  MARIONI  enters  from  the  sleeping  room,  and  pres- 
ently discovers  that  he  has  been  despoiled  of  all  his  hoard- 
ings. He  falls  upon  his  knees  beside  the  empty  hole,  and, 
while  lamenting  his  loss,  the  pavement  above  suddenly  falls 
in,  crushing  him  to  death.) 

SCENE  3.    (Same  as  Scene  I.) 

(ENTER,  from  Right,  the  mob;  among  the  first  is  MYR- 
1AM,  supporting  CLEM  who  is  almost  crazed  with  fear. 
FIRST,  SECOND  and  THIRD  MEN  prevent  the  mob  from 
rushing  upon  MYRIAM  and  CLEM.  The  mob  is  hooting, 
jeering  and  bandying  offensive  epithets.  MIKE  hastily  ad- 
vances and  intercepts  MYRIAM  in  the  center  of  the  street.) 

MIKE.     We  came  to  see  Mr.  Glendon,  and  we  are  going  to 
see  him,  Miss. 

MYR.    You  speak  to  me  after  this  outrage? 

(A  man  pushes  MIKE  aside.) 
A  VOICE.    Aw,  don't  take  no  bluff  from  the  girl. 

54 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

(MYRIAM  and  CLEM  reach  the  steps  up  which  CLEM 
stumbles,  and  disappears  into  the  house.  MYRIAM  mounts 
the  first  few  steps,  and,  turning,  faces  the  mob.) 

FIRST  WORKMAN.  It's  up  to  Glendon  to  show  his  head 
right  now. 

(Cries  of  "That's  what,"  "Right,"  greet  the  demand.) 

SECOND  WORKMAN.  Look  here,  young  woman,  we  don't 
want  no  trouble  with  you — that's  the  reason  we  give 
ye  the  nigger.  Give  'er  three  minutes  to  perduce  the 
old  guy,  Mike,  and  then,  if  they  don't,  by — 

MYR.  Silence,  you  chattering  fiends  groping  about  there 
in  the  guise  of  men!  And,  if  you  have  any  under- 
standing left,  listen  to  me. 

THIRD  WORKMAN.     Lord,  but  she's  flingin'  compliments! 
A  WOMAN.     The  hussy!    I'd  cram  that  down  her  throat! 
A  VOICE.     Shut  up!  let's  hear. 
A  BOY.     Her  next! 

VOICE.     Hush,  hush,  let  her  talk  if  she  wants  to. 
(General  movement  of  assent.) 

MYR.  Of  what  kind  are  you  that  you  can  forget,  in  a 
moment  of  passion,  the  full  years  of  Hiram  Glen- 
don's  providence?  What  spirit  of  villainy  is  in  you 
that  you  can  banish  from  memory  the  benefactions  of 
a  lifetime?  Yet,  you  have  no  treachery  but  ignor- 
ance, no  malice  but  greed,  and  your  violence  is  but 
the  distemper  of  ambition.  Your  minds  are  grown 
but  to  the  stature  of  children,  and,  like  children,  when 
you  are  ugly,  you  should  be  beaten;  and  to  win  your 
smile,  we  shall  give  you  a  bit  of  striped  candy!  [A 

55 


THE   WOOING 

murmur  of  resentment  runs  through  the  crowd.] 
For  shame !  For  shame !  That  you  make  occasion  for 
such  words  as  these,  the  righteousness  of  which  you 
cannot  with  honesty  deny.  [A  movement  of  dissent 
in  the  crowd.]  Hear  me,  and  if  manhood  has  not 
deserted  your  breasts  never  to  return,  bow  your 
heads  in  grief,  and  depart  in  peace.  My  father,  who 
has  befriended  you  in  many  ways  of  which  you  know, 
and  many  ways  of  which  you  know  not  anything,  lies 
within  this  house  (which  to-day  perhaps  he  does  not 
own)  ill  to  the  point  of  death.  It  is  the  fact  that 
he  cannot  pay  you,  that  he  has  exhausted  all  his 
forces  in  trying  to  meet  his  obligations  to  you — this 
it  is  which  has  stricken  him — yes,  and  my  own  in- 
gratitude— for  I,  too,  have  blundered,  men,  like  you 
— cruelly  blundered  last  night  when  I  withstood  the 
kind  old  man,  and  he  fell  prostrated  by  my  ungener- 
ous words. 

(ENTER,  PAOLO,  Left  Front.) 

Leave  us  now,  you  shall  be  paid  in  total  though  the 
factories  be  sold  to  satisfy  your  demands. 

A  VOICE.     We  need  more  than  your  word. 

ANOTHER  VOICE.     A  woman's  promise    to  back    an    old 
man's  failure! 

MYR.     Did  he  ever  deny  you  before? 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     Na,  na! 

SECOND  WORKMAN.     He  never  did  that. 

THIRD  WORKMAN.     You're  right  there,  my  lady. 

PAOLO.     [Springing  up  beside  Myriam]    Oh,  then  you  re- 
cover from  your  plague  of  the  beast!     It  is  well  that 

56 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

you  recover  in  time.  I  am  come  to  satisfy  your  de- 
mands, and,  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Glendon,  you  shall 
be  paid  in  full,  and  that  now.  Go  at  once  to  the  office 
of  the  company;  there  you  will  receive  every  dollar 
that  is  your  due — and,  then,  if  you  can  pray,  go  to 
your  knees,  and  ask  forgiveness  for  what  you  have 
thought  to  do  this  night. 

(A  general  stir  in  crowd,  and  questionings.   PAOLO  turns 
to    MYRIAM.) 

MYR.     They  will  kill  you  for  such  a  promise  as  that! 

PAOLO.  No;  for  I  shall  fulfill  it!  Oh,  wonderful!  I  be- 
held a  vision;  it  was  sent  from  on  high;  I  followed 
the  sign,  and  into  my  hands  was  delivered  this  treas- 
ure! [Showing  the  sack  of  gold.] 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     It's  a  bluffa. 

SECOND  WORKMAN.     We  don't  bite  that  bait ;  try  another. 

THIRD  WORKMAN.     It's  a  lie!  Bring  him  down. 

PAOLO.  It  is  true !  Only  give  me  leave  to  prove  it.  I  shall 
come  down.  [He  starts  down  the  steps.]  See,  I  am 
not  afraid  of  you.  Follow  me — come  with  me.  Is 
this  a  lie;  or  this? 

(He   throws   a   handful   of  gold   among   them,   and   they 
scramble  for  the  coin.     PAOLO  passes  through  the  mob.) 

Now  to  the  factories! 

(EXIT,  PAOLO,  Right,  the  mob  following.) 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Let'sa  follow  heem. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     Come  on. 

THIRD  WORKMAN.     Hurry  up,  we'll  get  left  in  the  shuffle. 

57 


THE   WOOING 

(EXIT,  the  MOB.  MYRIAM  stands  as  though  strick- 
en dumb  for  a  time,  then  goes  slowly  down  the  steps  and 
into  the  street.) 

MYR.     Is  he  mad,  or  am  I — has  all  this  really  been? 

A  VOICE.      [Off]  By  heaven,  we  will  kill  him  if  he  doesn't 
make  good! 

ANOTHER  VOICE.     And  carry  him  on  our  shoulders  if  he 
^does !     [The  mob  cheers.] 

MYR.     Be  your  voice  prophetic,  rude  though  it  is! 

(MYRIAM  starts  for  the  house;  pauses;  picks  up  a  peg  of 
the  violin.) 

The  key  of  a  violin — can  it  be — 

(She  goes  up  the  steps  and  finds  the  ruined  -violin  where 
HYDE  had  thrown  it.) 

Oh,  it  is  broken! 

(She  gathers  up  the  scattered  pieces,  and,  with  one  look 
after  PAOLO,  and  a  little  convulsive  sob,  as  her  eyes  fall 
again  upon  the  fragments  in  her  hands,  she  enters  the  house.) 


[CURTAIN] 


58 


OF   A   VIOLIN 


ACT  IV. 

(The  GLENDON  home  as  in  Act  II.  PIERRE  is  dis- 
covered, Left,  looking  through  a  picture  book.  After  the  rise 
of  the  curtain,  CLEM  ENTERS  with  tray  and  dishes  from 
the  sick  room,  Right.) 

CLEM.  Two  months  ago,  to-day,  Mars  and  my  lady  had 
the  only  quarrel  in  their  life;  and  since  then,  neither 
ain't  spoken  ter  the  other,  and  Mars  in  his  bed  mos' 
the  time  hardly  expected  ter  live;  but  he's  gettin' 
better  fas'  now,  sure  nough ;  so  fas'  I  feared  he  goin' 
ter  git  strong  headed  and  do  morn  he  oughter  fo  he 
kin.  And  there  the  Mistis!  Mistis  is  shorly  high 
headed,  and  she  tender  hearted  at  the  same  time ;  Lor, 
how  she  wait  on  old  Mars;  never  leavin'  the  room 
'ceptin'  when  I's  thar  ter  tend  ter  'im.  I  wonder  whar 
this  goin'  end  itsef? — I  dunno — I  dunno.  [He  sees 
Pierre.]  Good  evenin',  little  Mars  Pierre.  Is  your 
health  quite  circumspec'  this  evenin'? 

PIERRE.  Yes,  quite  good,  thank  you,  Clem.  Has  my 
papa  come  yet? 

CLEM.     No,  honey,  not  till  to-morrow  mornin'  ten  o'clock. 

PIERRE.  Well,  I  guess  I  can  stand  it  one  more  day;  one 
can  stand  so  much  when  one  has  to. 

CLEM.     If  you  ain't  the  beatenist!     Um  umh! 
(ENTER,   MYRIAM.) 

MYR.  Please  take  the  tray  to  the  kitchen,  Clem;  and  re- 
turn to  father  at  once;  he  is  determined  upon  getting 

59 


THE   WOOING 

up  and  dressing.    Help  him  if  you  must;  prevent  him 
if  you  can. 

CLEM.     Yes'm. 

(EXIT,  CLEM.    MYRIAM  comes  down,  Center.) 

MYR.  Well,  sir ;  and  how  does  my  little  man  get  along  by 
this  time:  quite  at  home,  isn't  he? 

PIERRE.  [Doubtfully]  Yes,  I'm  trying  to  be.  [He  crosses 
to  Myriam  and  takes  her  hand.]  But  it's  pretty  tough 
on  a  fellow  to  be  away  from  his  mamma  and  papa  so 
long,  don't  you  think? 

MYR.  Yes,  of  course  it  is,  dear.  But  you  shall  have  them 
both  to-morrow  when  they  will  take  you  to  your  real 
home;  and  then  you  will  be  so  happy  again.  And 
now,  I  think  you  had  best  be  off  to  bed — don't  you — 
so  you  may  be  up  bright  and  early  with  the  birds  in 
the  morning.  [She  rings  for  the  matron.] 

PIERRE.  All  right;  I'm  ready.  May  I  take  the  book  with 
me? 

MYR.     Yes,  dear. 

(ENTER,  MRS.  LANE.) 

MYR.  You  may  take  Pierre  to  his  room,  Mrs.  Lane — and 
he  will  soon  be  in  the  land  of  dreams — forgetful  of 
all  his  little  troubles. 

PIERRE.     Good  night,  Miss  Myriam. 
MYR.     Good  night,  dear.    [She  kisses  him.] 
(EXIT,  PIERRE  and  THE  MATRON.) 

(MYRIAM  shows  weariness.  She  goes  back  and  takes 
from  a  table  PAOLO'S  violin,  which  she  has  caused  to  be 
repaired.  She  looks  at  it  long  before  speaking.) 

60 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

MYR.  What  a  feeling  old  singer  you  are — and  what  a 
surprise  for  Paolo  when  he  comes  to-night. 

(ENTER  GLENDON,  Right,  in  dishabille.) 

GLEN.  [Pausing  at  door]  Myriam!  [Myriam  lays  the 
violin  down  and  faces  Glendon  imperiously.]  Why 
do  you  preserve  this  terrible  silence  toward  your 
father? 

MYR.  I  am  waiting  for  my  father  to  recall  the  last  words 
he  spoke  to  his  daughter. 

GLEN.     But  you  were  wrong,  Myriam.   [Frettingly.] 
MYR.     I  was  right! 

GLEN.  There,  there;  you  will  unman  me  again — right  or 
wrong,  let  us  be  kind! 

MYR.     Oh,  I  am  willing;  so  very,  very  willing! 

(She  hastens  to  him,  and  assists  him  to  a  seat,  Left  Cen- 
ter.) 

GLEN.  Then  it  is  not  all  lost — the  once  sweet  relation — 
the  tender  sympathy  expressed  when  last  we  sat,  as 
we  are  sitting  now,  and  played  out  our  little  figure 
of  the  balances? 

MYR.     It  need  not  be — it  shall  not  be. 

GLEN.  That  awful  night  when  my  men  gathered,  here,  in 
the  street,  demanding  their  pay — you  didn't  think  I 
knew,  but  I  did;  I  heard  much  of  that  distressful  af- 
fair, and  your  heroic  speech  which  came  after  they 
had  so  basely  abused  poor  Clem — what  was  it  that 
sent  them  away  so  suddenly?  Was  it  you  saved  us 
from  added  indignity? 

61 


THE   WOOING 

MYR.  No.  As  I  was  speaking  to  the  men,  telling  them  of 
your  illness,  and  pleading  with  them  to  desist  from 
their  folly,  some  one  came  hurriedly  through  the 
crowd,  and,  leaping  beside  me  on  the  porch,  prom- 
ised the  men  their  wages;  and  then  he  led  them 
toward  the  factories,  the  men  following  him  eagerly. 
I  understand  that  this  "some  one"  paid  the  men  what 
was  their  due. 

GLEN.  It  was  Hyde.  Ah,  yes ;  my  trust  was  well  placed 
in  him. 

MYR.     No,  it  was  not. 
GLEN.     An  agent  of  his. 
MYR.     Nor  an  agent. 

GLEN.  No  other  in  all  this  city  would  do  such  a  generous 
thing  as  that  for  us,  Myriam. 

MYR.  Yes,  two  others  in  this  city  would  do  such  a  thing 
for  us,  father ;  Mr.  Chase,  if  he  could ;  Paolo  Adre- 
mollo,  as  he  did! 

GLEN.     What,  that  ragamuffin  street  fiddler? 

MYR.  No,  that  noble  young  Italian,  whose  every  feature 
betrays  his  patrician  blood,  whose  every  accent  has 
the  cadence  of  true  culture;  a  gentleman  of  finest  in- 
stincts and  generous  impulses. 

GLEN.     Myriam,  what  fine  frenzy  are  you  acting  here? 

MYR.     The  frenzy  of  inadequate  praise;  for  every  word  I 
'      utter  in  description  leaps  but  to  half  the  stature  of  my 
meaning.     And  this  you  yourself  shall  see. 

GLEN.     Have  you  seen  him  since  that  night? 

62 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

MYR.  Every  day,  he  has  been  here  to  inquire  after  you — 
so  solicitous  of  your  health. 

GLEN.     Of  my  health?    Hum! 

MYR.  Yes ;  and  he  is  coming  again,  very  soon ;  even  now 
is  his  hour — and  you  will  thank  him  for  what  he  has 
done  for  us;  and  like  him  just  as  I  do,  papa,  won't 
you — won't  you — papa? 

GLEN.  Just  as  you  do?  [Quizzically.  Myriam  nods.] 
Well,  bring  your  paragon  in  to  me.  I  give  over  my 
judgment,  my  ripe  experience,  and  every  attempt  to 
understand.  This  tale  of  yours  has  the  best  of  Grimm 
or  else  my  mind  is  tricked  and  all's  the  fancy  of  a 
fevered  brain. 

(ENTER,   CLEM.) 

CLEM.     Mistah  Paolo  Adremollo. 
MYR.     We  will  see  him  here,  Clem. 

(EXIT,  CLEM.) 

GLEN.  That  was  Clem's  voice,  and  Myriam  answered  it. 
There's  evidence  of  a  flesh  and  blood  beginning. 

(ENTER,  PAOLO.) 
MYR.     He  comes! 

(She  springs  up,  and  greets  PAOLO  warmly.) 

PAOLO.  I  am  chosen  for  first  violin  in  the  symphony  or- 
chestra. [To  Myriam.] 

MYR.     I  knew  it,  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it! 
PAOLO.     You  knew  it? 
MYR.     Of  course;  didn't  you  deserve  it? 

63 


THE   WOOING 

PAOLO.     Well,  I  think  I  can  handle  the  part. 

MYR.     Of  course ;  you  could  direct  the  whole  orchestra. 

PAOLO.  Hard  work  may  earn  promotion.  Is  that  your 
father  up?  It  is!  [They  cross  to  Glendon.] 

MYR.  Father,  this  is  Paolo  Adremollo  whom  you  have 
met  before ;  I  am  sure  you  remember  him. 

GLEN.     Perfectly.    I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir. 

PAOLO.  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  see  you  so  far  re- 
covered. 

GLEN.     Thank  you.    I  am  feeling  quite  myself  to-day. 

PAOLO.  You  have  had  a  long  illness;  but  the  doctor  says 
your  recovery  may  be  complete. 

GLEN.  I  trust  it  will  be.  But  come — I  am  told  you  are  a 
necromancer — or  is  it  magic  you  practice?  Was  it 
you,  Paolo,  who  outran  the  world  and  plucked  the 
golden  bag  from  the  end  of  the  rainbow? 

PAOLO.     Sir  ? 

GLEN.  There,  there,  I'll  put  fooling  aside.  What  is  our 
status?  In  whose  hands  are  the  factories?  Where  is 
Wetherell?  Why  has  he  not  been  here?  Send  for 
him  at  once! 

(He  speaks  with  the  peevish  impatience  of  weakness.) 

MYR.  There,  father,  let  your  mind  be  at  rest;  Paolo  can 
tell  you  all. 

GLEN.  What?  You  understand  affairs?  But  first:  who 
is  Paolo  Adremollo;  and  how  does  it  come  that  he, 
a  stranger  to  us  heretofore,  is  associated  with  us  in 
this  remarkable  manner? 

64 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

PAOLO.     That  would  necessitate  the  story  of  my  life. 

MYR.  With  his  every  act  strung  as  a  bead  on  a  rosary 
leading  through  these  eventful  days. 

PAOLO.  And  in  the  stringing,  we  have  made  the  cross  and 
now  pass  on,  leaving  it  a  sacred  symbol  of  the  past. 

(GLENDON  drops  his  face    in    his    hands.     MYRIAM 
attends.) 

MYR.     Father,  what  is  it? 

GLEN.  I  am  attentive  to  your  story.  [Recovering  him- 
self.] Pardon  me,  won't  you  be  seated? 

PAOLO.  I  was  born  in  the  North  of  Italy  of  a  family  of 
some  influence.  When  two  years  of  age,  I  was  ab- 
ducted by  brigands ;  and,  after  all  attempts  at  my 
ransom  had  failed,  I  was  spirited  away  to  this  coun- 
try, to  be  put  under  the  hard  tutelage  of  an  Italian 
padrone.  I  grew  up  as  his  son. 

GLEN.     It  is  hard  to  understand  your  felicity  of  address. 

PAOLO.  Perhaps  a  birthright;  but  more,  because,  while 
still  a  child,  my  life  was  blessed  by  the  notice  of  a 
nun  from  the  abbey.  Since  then,  I  have  stolen  an 
hour  each  day  to  pursue  a  course  of  study  marked 
out  for  me  by  the  Mother  Superior. 

MYR.  Tell  father  why  you  stayed  with  the  old  padrone  in 
the  cellar  so  long  when  your  tastes  all  revolted 
against  it. 

(She  sits  on  the  arm  of  GLENDON'S  chair.) 

PAOLO.  There  was  one  whom  I  loved  as  a  sister,  a 
daughter  to  the  old  padrone.  I  stayed  in  the  hope  of 
inducing  her,  finally,  to  seek  the  care  and  protection 

65 


THE   WOOING 

of  them  at  the  abbey.  This  she  refused  to  do  until, 
one  night,  by  an  accident,  her  wild  birth  nest  was  de- 
stroyed. She  is  now  a  novitiate  under  the  direction 
and  in  the  comfort  of  the  women  of  that  blessed  sis- 
terhood. 

MYR.  Now  tell  us  of  the  pot  of  gold,  and  the  paying  of 
the  men! 

GLEN.  This  is  the  tale  of  the  chief  wonder  worker. 
[Aside.] 

PAOLO.  It  seems  that  the  basement  we  lived  in  had  been 
the  rendezvous  of  a  gang  of  robbers  before  the  advent 
of  the  Marioni  family.  This  band  pooled  its  ill-got 
gains,  and  was  thrifty  in  its  way.  A  loose  stone  of 
the  old  rock  floor  covered  an  iron  kettle  in  which  was 
secreted  the  riches  of  the  band ;  and  the^  amount  con- 
tained in  this  hiding  place  had  grown  to  a  large  sum, 
when,  on  a  fatal  night,  all  but  one  of  the  robbers  were 
shot  down  during  an  attempt  on  the  vaults  of  a  bank 
in  New  Hamburg.  It  is  believed  that  Marioni  was 
the  one  of  that  band  who  escaped.  But  his  connection 
with  the  crime  could  never  be  traced. 

MYR.     But  everyone  thinks  he  was  one  of  them,  though. 

PAOLO.  Yes;  for,  one  week  later,  he  was  found  in  posses- 
sion of  the  quarters,  living  with  an  Italian  woman 
whom  he  claimed  for  his  wife.  If  he  had  been  a 
robber  before,  he  changed  his  methods  at  this  time 
and  became  a  cowardly  padrone. 

MYR.     And  here,  Paolo  appears. 

PAOLO.     Yes,  but  the  history  of  my  training,  the  coming 

66 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

of  little  Nizetta,  and  the  stealing  of    Pierre,  would 
not  interest  you. 

GLEN.     But  how  did  you  learn  all  this? 

PAOLO.  Partly  from  the  police  records;  partly  from  in- 
ference; partly  as  I  shall  relate. 

MYR.     Now  listen,  father. 

PAOLO.  Once  I  dreamed  of  a  treasure  hid  under  a  block 
of  our  floor,  but,  strange,  I  never  undertook  to  veri- 
fy the  vision  of  my  sleep  until  the  day  of  your  urgent 
need.  I  chanced  to  be  passing  this  way  the  time  that 
your  men  attempted  to  mob  you.  I  stood  powerless, 
there  in  the  street,  to  prevent  it,  or  assist  you.  In  the 
agony,  because  of  my  weakness,  I  cried  out  for  some 
sign  to  be  sent  me ;  and  lo !  on  the  instant,  there  broke, 
as  a  great  light  upon  me,  the  memory  of  my  dream, 
in  a  vision  made  supernaturally  vivid.  I  started  and 
ran,  impelled  by  an  irresistible  force,  full  speed  for  the 
cellar.  I  entered  as  though  guided — I  flew  to  the 
cupboard  and  took  from  a  shelf  an  old  chisel,  and,  in 
a  moment  more,  was  kneeling  over  a  large  stone  in 
the  middle  of  the  pavement.  I  pried  at  the  stone;  it 
yielded!  On  the  third  attempt,  I  raised  it.  Oh, 
wonderful — there  lay  the  minted,  lusterful  metal, 
enough  and  to  spare  to  ward  off  the  hideous  cli- 
max of  the  mob's  intended  revenge. 

(PAOLO  rises  and  paces   the  ftoor  in  the  excitement   of 
his  narration.) 

MYR.  Then  he  paid  off  the  men,  shut  down  the  shops,  and 
there  all  the  great  buildings  stand,  awaiting  your 
command  to  imbue  them  again  with  life. 

67 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.  Then  the  old  world  does  swing  on  the  hinges  of 
love,  doesn't  it?  And  love  shall  receive  its  reward. 
But  where  have  Hyde  and  Wetherell  been  all  this 
time?  Come,  your  story's  not  finished. 

(The  door-bell  rings.  PAOLO  and  MYRIAM  exchange 
glances.  MYRIAM  warns  PAOLO  not  to  tell  her  father  of 
HYDE.) 

PAOLO.  We  know  but  little  about  them;  only  this,  per- 
haps— 

(ENTER,  CLEM.) 

CLEM.     The  ladies  and  Mr.  Chase  to  see  Miss  Glendon. 
(ENTER,  GRACE,  BESS  and  MR.  CHASE.) 
(CLEM  crosses  and  stands  Left  of  GLENDON.) 

GRACE.  Oh,  we  have  such  news !  [  She  passes  on  to 
Glendon.]  Why,  Mr.  Glendon,  so  glad  to  see  you 
around  again. 

BESS.  [To  Myriam]  Couldn't  guess  it  in  a  thousand 
years.  [Passes  on  to  Glendon.]  Oh,  isn't  it  splendid 
to  be  out  again?  We've  been  so  afraid  you'd  never 
be  yourself  again ;  but  you  are  going  to  be,  aren't 
you? 

GLEN.     Well,  I  certainly  hope  so. 

CHASE.     [To  Myriam]    Have  you  seen  the  afternoon  pa- 
pers? 

MYR.     No. 

(She  indicates  the  presence  of  her  father,  and  cautions 
CHASE.) 

CHASE.  Oh,  we  have  an  antidote  for  him  better  than  all 
the  medical  compounds. 

68 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

MYR.     Not  if  it's  very  exciting. 

(GRACE  crosses  to  PAOLO,  Right,  Front.) 

CHASE.  [To  Glendon]  Congratulations  on  your  conva- 
lescence. 

GLEN.     Thanks,  Chase. 

GRACE.     The  merger's  smashed!     [To  Paolo.] 

PAOLO.     Is  it  true? 

BESS.     To  smithereens! 

GRACE.  The  evening  papers  are  full  of  it.  [As  Chase 
gives  paper  to  Glendon.)  No,  no,  read  it  aloud  so  all 
may  hear. 

GLEN.     Yes,  I  can  scarcely  see  to  read  it  for  myself. 
BESS.     Oh,  it's  great! 

CHASE.  [Reading]  "It  ends  in  a  crash!  The  great  at- 
tempt to  combine  the  clothing  manufactories  of  the 
country  fails  for  lack  of  funds.  Stock  in  Maxwell  & 
Boynton's  merger  goes  to  zero  in  a  wild  panic  this 
morning.  Hyde,  the  promoter,  has  left  the  city.  The 
firm  refuses  to  talk." 

GLEN.     Hyde — promoter ! 

(He  is  almost  overcome  by  the  revelation.) 
GRACE.     That  is  of  particular  interest  to  you,  Mr.  Glendon. 

GLEN.  [Recovering  himself  and  with  gratitude  thrilling 
his  being]  "All  thy  waves  and  thy  billows  have  gone 
over  me.  Yet,  the  Lord  will  command  his  loving 
kindness." 

69 


THE   WOOING 

GRACE.  Now  read  the  other,  Mr.  Chase.  Oh,  it  is  splen- 
did, splendid! 

CHASE.  [Reading]  "A  great  find!  Director  of  the  Sym- 
phony orchestra  so  speaks  of  the  almost  unknown 
Paolo  Adremollo,  who  is  to  play  first  violin  in  the  or- 
ganization." 

BESS.     Isn't  it  just  too  good? 

(MYRIAM  and  PAOLO,  in  a  mutual  action,  start  toward 
each  other;  but  pause.) 

CHASE.  Keep  your  eloquence  a  moment;  more  follows 
here.  [Reads]  "It  will  be  of  interest  to  the  readers  of 
the  Post  to  know  that  the  little  melody,  'The  Wooing 
of  a  Violin,'  which  sprang  into  such  popularity,  al- 
most within  the  week,  was  written  by  this  young 
Italian.  It  is  said  that  a  lady,  daughter  of  one  of  our 
most  prominent  manufacturers,  was  the  inspiration  of 
it.  This  may  set  the  faddists  to  discussing  again, 
'Has  art  a  message  ?'  " 

(During  this  reading,  PAOLO  has  modestly  retired  to  the 
hall  zvhere  he  walks  slowly  back  and  forth  to  tranquilise  his 
emotions.  At  the  last  word,  he  stands  ivithin  the  archway, 
facing  audience.  GRACE,  CHASE  and  MYRIAM,  Right; 
GLENDON,  BESS  and  CLEM,  Left.  They  applaud  him, 
and  cries  of  "bravo,"  "bravo"  are  given.) 

PAOLO.  Why  do  you  applaud  me?  I  am  but  the  instru- 
ment into  which  flowed  the  harmony  of  a  comple- 
mental  life.  In  Hamlin  Square,  by  the  fountain,  that 
harmony  thrilled  my  being  until  love  awoke,  heard, 
and  sang  in  responsive  ecstasy  to  the  wide,  wide  world 
the  song  that  had  birth  for  but  one.  That  one  was 
Myriam. 

70 


OF   A   VIOLIN 

(He  crosses  down  to  MYRIAM.  As  he  does  so,  GLEN- 
DON  speaks  to  CLEM,  and  the  servant  goes  back  to  a  small 
writing  desk  in  a  corner  of  the  room  for  writing  materials. 
BESS  and  CHASE  take  positions  behind  GLENDON'S 
chair;  while  GRACE  goes  to  the  harp,  and,  standing  beside  it, 
picks  out  the  little  love  song,  softly,  with  one  hand.  She 
plays  to  fall  of  curtain.) 

Oh,  my  love,  I  shall  tell  you  now  in  phrase  that 
never  before  has  crossed  my  lips — but  from  my  heart 
irradiated  a  wordless  rhapsody — I  love  you.  Tell  me — 
tell  me  this — as  I  have  read  it  in  your  beautiful  eyes — 
tell  me,  "It  is  not  in  vain." 

(MYRIAM  attempts  to  reply;  but  a  Hood  of  feeling  pre- 
vents her.  She  raises  her  eyes,  smiles,  lifts  her  face  to 
PAOLO'S,  and  their  lips  meet.  After  the  caress,  PAOLO 
and  MYRIAM,  with  arms  around  each  other,  walk  back  to 
the  table  where  lies  the  violin  which  PAOLO  has  not  seen 
since  the  night  it  was  broken.  During  this  action,  CLEM 
brings  down  pen,  paper  and  ink,  and  GLENDON  writes.  In 
a  moment,  during  which  PAOLO  and  MYRIAM  stand  with 
their  backs  to  the  audience,  looking  at  the  instrument, 
GLENDON  attracts  the  attention  of  CHASE.) 

GLEN.  Love  has  received  its  reward,  I  have  said;  but  it  is 
written,  "Unto  him  that  hath  shall  be  given ;"  so  here 
is  a  heaping  for  their  measure. 

(He  hands  writing  to  CHASE,  who  reads  silently,  then 
turns  swiftly  toward  PAOLO  and  MYRIAM,  but  seeing  their 
absorption,  goes  quietly  over  to  GRACE  and  BESS.) 

CHASE.  [Reads]  "I  hereby  convey  to  my  dear  friend, 
Paolo  Adremollo,  and  my  daughter,  Myriam  Glen- 
don,  my  entire  property.  I  further  convey  and  be- 
stow upon  them  the  most  gracious  benediction  of  a 
fond  old  father,  which  shall  be  for  them  and  theirs 
forever.  H.  V.  GLENDON." 

71 


THE   WOOING 

GLEN.     Not  the  usual  form  for  a  legal  document,  perhaps, 
but  you  two  shall  witness  it,  nevertheless. 

CHASE.  [ 

BESS.     [Joyously! 

GLEN.     Sign  here. 

(CHASE  kneels  at  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  signs;  as  he 
rises,  PAOLO  and  MYRIAM  turn  and  face  front;  MYRIAM 
has  the  violin  in  her  hands.  BESS  signs,  slowly,  and  remains 
kneeling.) 

MYR.     The  Wooing  of  a  Violin. 

[SLOW  CURTAIN] 


72 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC|UTY 


A    000105598     7 


